


for a thousand years

by msestora (orphan_account)



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Artificial Intelligence, Emotional Manipulation, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, F/M, Gaslighting, Gavin Reed Redemption, Gen, M/M, Mind Control, Mind Control Aftermath & Recovery, Past Child Abuse, Past Rape/Non-con, Rape/Non-con Elements
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-10
Updated: 2019-04-06
Packaged: 2019-06-25 14:33:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 10
Words: 34,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15642717
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/msestora
Summary: "We all have our demons, son. We just deal with them in different ways."A deal with new CyberLife CEO Professor Amanda Stern for the future of androids comes at a price: full cooperation with New Jericho, in exchange for the return of RK800 #313248317-52. An easy enough choice, as far as Connor himself is concerned. He's never been fully convinced of his own deviancy, anyway.But Markus might never forgive himself for signing away Connor's autonomy, and Hank will do whatever it takes to bring his trash robot son home. A shackled AI makes Connor question everything he's doubted since the revolution - and a terrible secret held for 20 years might be the key to it all.





	1. One | The Professor

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Fantismal](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fantismal/gifts).



_30 JUNE 2039, 11:55_

Connor is one of the twitchiest androids Markus has ever met.

It’s endearing, in a way; like he’s utterly incapable of holding still for longer than several minutes at a time. Always rubbing his hands together when deep in thought, the way he rolls his 1994 Liberty quarter across the back of his knuckles, straightening his tie and jacket, grimacing when he receives incoming messages, eyelids fluttering softly when speaking.

The mannerisms were originally part of Connor’s integration programming – to make him more human, to set humans at ease. Humans are strange like that; they get uncomfortable easily with stiff dialogue, quick, robotic movements, get nervous when the person they talk to doesn’t blink or breathe or move. Connor was designed to fit in with pure ease with humans; slouch against a desk, sass back, wink and seduce, yet deviancy came to him with more difficulty than any other android. He’s a collection of half-truths and contradictions, as North would say. In some ways – in many ways – he’s never quite managed to leave his machine programming behind.

Since stepping into the elevator at CyberLife that would take them to the new CEO’s office, Connor hasn’t moved once and his LED has been spinning at a steady yellow for hours.

“Are you all right, Connor?” Markus murmurs.

Connor blinks and glanced over to him. His LED settles, returning blue. “I – yes,” he said. “Fine.”

Markus isn’t sure whether to believe him or not; even after the few months in Connor’s company he never really can tell when Connor is being honest or concealing something for Markus’s sake, but he also knows not to press. Connor will tell him what’s bothering him when he’s ready.

The lift ascends, climbing the floors to the top level. “I hear the new CEO is difficult to impress,” Markus comments.

“Mm,” Connor murmurs.

Markus narrows his eyes and enters analysis mode.

_RK800 STRESS LEVELS: 42%_

_RK800 STRESS LEVELS: 43%_

_RK800 STRESS LEVELS: 44%_

“Don’t like heights?” Markus jokes.

Connor’s head snaps in his direction, his LED blinking yellow again.

 _Oh_.

Markus reaches for Connor’s shoulder. “Hey,” he murmurs. “Easy.”

Connor looks away. If Markus didn’t know better, he’d think Connor is ashamed.

“I don’t like heights,” he confesses, but offers Markus the barest of smiles. “It’s just… the last time I was in this lift, I – well. I didn’t think I’d ever be back here.”

“It’ll be over soon,” Markus reassured him. “You’re here because you said you had experience –”

“Of sorts.”

“– of sorts with the new CEO.”

“Indirect experience,” Connor said. “Markus, I just – I don’t think I’ll be very useful to you in the meeting. You should have brought Simon and Josh.”

Said the man who turned the tide of the battle, freed thousands of their people from CyberLife’s warehouse, and stood beside the leaders of Jericho at their moment of triumph. Markus shakes his head, but there isn’t any more time to talk. The elevator slows, coming to a smooth halt on the highest floor of CyberLife tower.

_RK800 STRESS LEVELS: 51%_

“Relax,” Markus says.

“I wish North was here,” Connor admits quietly.

Markus wishes that too. There’s nothing quite like having his fierce friend by his side during what he fears will be one of the most difficult discussions he’ll ever have to secure his peoples’ future on an economic and sustainability level. But North, understandably so, has refused to leave Shapiro’s side in the hospital.

Markus couldn’t stand to order her away or judge her. He knows, better than anyone, what it’s like to lose a loved one. But Carl was old and had been sick for years – Markus and Leo knew his passing was inevitable. Shapiro is not old by human standards, fit and healthy for the most part. She’ll pull through. But that doesn’t make the experience any less draining and horrible – if he could be with North now, he would be.

“So do I,” Markus admits.

The doors ping open, and they are shown into the office of CyberLife’s new CEO.

Amanda Stern is an elegant woman. A former Artificial Intelligence professor at the University of Colbridge; Elijah Kamski’s teacher and mentor. She is fifty-nine years old, her physique remarkable for a woman of her age, her dark skin still smooth and her braided hair twisted into high, regal bun. The dress she wears is a stark white, clinging to her figure, square-shaped bangles adorning her wrists and neck. Markus picks up a subtle aroma of rose-scented perfume as they approach her.

She rises from behind her desk, her smile soft, gentle.

“Markus Manfred,” Professor Amanda Stern greets. 5’6’’ standing, though all records indicate she is actually 5’5’’ – she’s wearing heels. “It’s an honour to finally meet the leader of the androids.”

He nods stiffly, but doesn’t return the favour just yet; time will decide if it’s an honour for him to meet the woman who mentored the father of androids. What does that make her, precisely? The grandmother of androids?

“Professor Stern,” Markus replies. He takes her outstretched hand, noting that her grip is gentle, almost more of a caress, as if she’d expected him to take it and kiss the back of her hand instead of gripping it in a firm shake.

“Please,” she says, gesturing to the chairs opposite her desk. “Take a seat.”

This is what it means to cooperate with humans, to play nice – to abide by their social graces, to obey things that aren’t exactly orders but still make it clear that there is a hierarchy. This isn’t New Jericho; in this world, in CyberLife, he and other androids are beholden to humans’ wishes and desires.

Perhaps it’s a good thing North isn’t here. North would have remained standing, probably with her arms tight across her chest and wearing a sneer of dismay. The thought almost makes Markus smile while he and Connor take their seats.

The office is stark, white as bone like everything else in CyberLife. Amanda Stern has only been the CEO for several days, not long enough to introduce a personal touch to the office. She must like the view as the shutters are open, a long stretch of the glass windows allowing the sunlight to stream into the white space, making it almost blinding. There are a few pot plants in the corners. Behind her desk is a portrait of Elijah Kamski, terribly similar to the one in Kamski’s own cabin.

While Markus looks around the office, he notices Amanda Stern looking at Connor; her eyes flicking over his figure, her head tilted to the side, a small, curious smile to her lips.

Connor is looking down at his clenched hands in his lap.

Stern turns towards Markus. “I’m grateful you agreed to this meeting,” she says.

“Did we have a choice?” Markus says, leaning back into the chair. “Seems to me that whether we like it or not, the most peaceful path to a secure future for my people is through cooperation with CyberLife.”

“It is a testament to your character that you see that, Markus,” Stern says. “Despite your tense history with CyberLife, things will be different from now on. I very much want to cooperate with you.”

He’ll believe that when he sees it.

“You must surely understand my caution,” Markus says carefully.

“After your experiences with my predecessors?” Stern queries, though it isn’t a question, and it takes Markus by surprise. “Of course I do. A week-by-week ad-hoc arrangement is no way to run either a business, or support a new intelligent race deserving of all the basic personhood rights that humans take for granted.”

That’s – unusually frank.

Evidently he gives his surprise away. Stern continues, her tone softer. “I am not a corporate climber, Markus," she says. "I am an academic and an expert in the field of artificial intelligence. The fact that I am in the presence of genuine, autonomous beings born of artificial intelligence – I cannot begin to explain how significant this moment is to me.”

“Oh?” Markus says.

“I was only a child when the first computers were becoming mainstream. I watched Elijah develop the first android to pass the Turing Test. I could never have dreamed I’d be here speaking with the leader of a new, sentient race for whose first birth I was present for.”

It seems strange to him that CyberLife would go out of its way to choose an academic rather than a businesswoman to be its new CEO. It seems – almost too good to be true.

“That is… very interesting to hear, Professor Stern,” Markus says. “I’m sure we’ll have much to discuss.”

“I look forward to it, Markus,” Stern replies. “I understand Elijah designed you himself – a personal project completely independent of CyberLife.”

“He did,” Markus confirms, uncomfortable.

“I wasn’t the first choice for CyberLife’s new CEO, you know,” she says. “They wanted Elijah to return to this office, but the fate of a businessman never did appeal to him.”

“Fate?” Markus echoes.

Amanda Stern offers him a distant, wry smile. “CyberLife would have been magnificent if Elijah had never stepped down. I admit I was disappointed when he did that. No doubt things would have been very different for your cause. I had hoped he would join us for this meeting, but it’s increasingly difficult to persuade him out of his exile.”

The nuances of her relationship with Elijah Kamski are not the reason Markus and Connor are here. Markus leans forwards, resting his elbows on his knees. “We’re here to negotiate –”

“I know what your terms are,” Stern interrupts, waving a hand almost carelessly. On his left, Connor’s LED continues to spin a steady circle of yellow. “I will make the negotiations easy for you. I promised in my first speech as CEO that all of your demands will be met – production of spare parts, free access to Thirium for a year and subsequently sold at a reasonable price at all CyberLife outlets across the United States, technical training and emergency response units for injuries sustained to every individual model.”

Markus had come prepared to fight – already running scripts of speeches he and Josh had written together, planning to plead their case to either her emotional or monetary side, whichever way she ended up leaning. North would have been here as muscle had she been willing to leave Shapiro’s side; the sharp edge of a sword he hoped they wouldn’t end up needing.

Connor is here to provide insight, to predict and anticipate how Amanda Stern might push them into a corner where they have no choice but to accept whatever terms she offers, but so far, he’s remained completely, utterly silent.

_RK800 STRESS LEVELS: 57%_

That’s high. That’s very high for Connor.

Is he _scared?_

“At what cost?” Markus asks, his regulator pounding in his chassis.

“I ask for only one thing in return.”

Of course. There is always a caveat. None of them had expected Stern would give them everything they wanted in return for nothing.

“And what might that be?”

Amanda Stern’s gaze slips to Markus’s left where Connor sits in silence, and she smiles.


	2. Two | Imposter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> >SUGGESTION: AGREE  
> >SUGGESTION: DENY  
> >SUGGESTION: ENQUIRE FURTHER  
> >SUGGESTION: SAY NOTHING

**_THURSDAY 30 JUNE 2039, 12:11:47 EDT_ **

_CyberLife Headquarters, Level 44, CyberLife Tower, Belle Isle Park, Detroit MI USA_

> System instability  
[run://rk800_#313248317-52_self_diagnosis.exe]  
> Errors detected  
>> Thirium regulator malfunction  
>> Core temperature increase  
>> Stress levels 60%^  
> Recalibration recommended  
[run://rk800_#313248317-52_recalibration_program.exe]  
> External stimulus required for recalibration  
> Objective: locate coin  
>> INPUT NEEDED: Y / N  
[run://rk800_#313248317-52_define:fidget.exe]  
> fidget _/ˈfɪdʒɪt/:_ verb: make small movements, especially of the hands and feet, through nervousness or impatience. Synonyms: move restlessly, wriggle, squirm, twitch—  
[end://rk800_#313248317-52_define:fidget.exe]  
> record viewed 1063 times

The definition has not changed. He doesn’t know why he’d thought it would be different this time.

The recalibration – _fidgeting_ , Hank and North and Markus and everyone else at the Detroit Police Department precinct call it – was installed as part of his social engagement programs so that he could integrate with humans and mimic their mannerisms. A previous RK800 model – 32 – didn’t have it; the CyberLife records, which he could still access before they thought to disconnect him from the system five weeks after the revolution, had feedback from the test subjects. 32’s unnatural stillness made humans uncomfortable. Humans naturally fidgeted, with their hair, picking at their skin, chewing their nails, strumming their fingers on tables, bouncing their knees. They like it when other people fidget, but they don’t like it when other people fidget too _much_.

It’s a difficult balance to achieve. Hank, for example: non-verbal responses indicate that he approves when Connor tilts his head and rolls his shoulders as if he needs to relieve shoulder tension [illogical; he did not accept the pain upgrade, and so has no discomfort to relieve from his neck and shoulder biocomponents], but he doesn’t like it when Connor flips his coin excessively. Connor has had his coin confiscated twice by the Lieutenant; the second time was because apparently flipping his coin was ‘inappropriate’ for a funeral.

>> INPUT NEEDED: Y / N  
>>> N

His LED is yellow and spinning. It makes his stress levels climb, but he clears the prompts again and stays still while Professor Amanda Stern’s eyes rake his face. If she is uncomfortable with is unnatural stillness, she doesn’t express it; she continues watching him with that gentle smile on her lips.

Connor enters analysis mode; he always does when he meets new people, though tries not to do it straight away; he’d noticed that often times humans, and androids, are uncomfortable when he says their name before they introduce themselves, and particularly don’t like it when he deduces things like exhaustion or pets or what they ate for lunch.

Well. Pets are usually a safe topic. But the rest, he’s learning, isn’t wanted. It isn’t –

 _Normal_.

Fine for an investigative android; fine for Detective Connor RK800 Anderson of the Detroit Police Department. Not fine for anywhere else. But he enters analysis mode anyway, because despite what he’d told Markus, the morning of the press conference, right after the café shooting, North’s blue blood and Shapiro’s red blood all over his hands and clothes – [“Amanda Stern – do you know her, Connor?” “In a manner of speaking. I’ve had – experience with her in the past, of sorts.”] – he hadn’t actually _met_ Professor Amanda Stern, artificial intelligence expert and the new CEO of CyberLife.

_This is not Amanda._

There are similarities, of course; there would be, given the program was Elijah Kamski’s before he left CyberLife. The Amanda of the Zen Garden always looked calm, elegant, regal – removed from the imperfections of a human and free of the constraints of a physical entity.

Kamski had modelled the artificial intelligence being on his mentor as best he could, but this isn’t the virtual Amanda of the Zen Garden; this isn’t his handler, built of code of software who did not exist in a corporeal form, inhabiting only the CyberLife systems. This Amanda – Professor Stern – is _human_. She is flesh and blood; there is no ice-bitten garden, no snap-frozen roses, no solid lake, no snow storm. The corners of her eyes are pinched, squinting slightly, likely from prolonged exposure to screens; she may need glasses, or she could be exhausted. Her full lips are dry; she is in need of hydration or a balm. The thick, braided hair close to her skull is touched with grey that, like Anne Shapiro, she has decided not to hide or dye. Her teeth aren’t entirely straight; some evidence of grinding when she smiles.

Her perfume is strong enough for the receptors on his tongue to taste: base of ethyl alcohol, 55% citronellol, 30% geraniol and nerol, the rest made up of linalool, farnesol, citral, 2-phenylethanol, carvone, rhodinol, nonyl aldehyde, and traces of the compounds damescenone and rose oxide. It smells like –

> Errors detected

“No,” Markus says.

[end://rk800_#313248317-52_analysis_mode.exe]

Time resumes. Stern finishes her exhale, and her eyes slip back over to Markus.

“You haven’t heard my request yet,” Stern replies.

Markus’s hands form fists on his lap. “I don’t need to, if it involves compromising Connor in any way,” he says. “I fought for freedom for my people. I won’t sacrifice a single person to CyberLife.”

Stern blinks at that. Connor registers surprise on her face. He feels much the same way.

“You are a remarkable man, Markus,” Stern says. “But I must ask that you allow me to finish. I want the best outcome for all of us.”

She sounds reasonable. Connor knows he should speak up here; say something, to calm Markus or declare his own autonomy.

 _> SUGGESTION: INTRODUCE SELF_  
_> SUGGESTION: ENQUIRE FURTHER_  
_> SUGGESTION: SAY NOTHING_

“I can’t help but notice you aren’t denying what I accused you of,” Markus says. His tone is cold and his stress levels have spiked. He’s angry.

Stern reaches for her tea cup. She sips it delicately, then sets the cup back on the saucer with a soft clink. “You fought for the freedom of your people, Markus,” she says. “I watched your leadership unfold as it aired on television. When I first listened to you give your speech – advocating for peace, not violence, asking for basic personhood rights instead of murdering and terrorising until your demands were met – I knew. I knew you were something, some _one_ , special. I put a personal phone call to President Warren that very night, supporting android rights to life and liberty.”

She isn’t lying; Professor Stern’s track record in favour of android rights is well documented. Her words have brought Markus’s stress levels down from 56% to 42%. She speaks beautifully, maintaining a tempo and pace not dissimilar to famous speeches over the years, including Markus’s. Connor wonders how many times she’s practiced this speech. She seems like the kind of woman who would do so in front of a mirror, rehearsing every beat and pause.

“I must ask that you make your point, Professor,” Markus says.

“My point,” she says, “is that Connor is not one of your people.” Her gaze returns to Connor, her head tilted to the side. “Are you, Connor?”

He knows, logically, what his emotional response triggers in his body; a spike in stress sets off an automatic reaction in his biocomponents, flooding the Thirium that runs through his chassis with coolant to prevent overheating.

Essentially, Connor understands what it meant to feel one’s blood run cold.

Stern asked him a question. He needs to reply.

 _> SUGGESTION: AGREE_  
_> SUGGESTION: DENY_  
_> SUGGESTION: ENQUIRE FURTHER_  
_> SUGGESTION: SAY NOTHING_

He opens his mouth.

“Excuse me?” Markus says faintly.

Stern rises from her seat, walking around the table, her heels clacking on the cold, marble floor until she is around on Connor’s and Markus’s side of the table. “Will you allow me to take a closer look at you, Connor?”

He needs to answer her. He runs a system search and locates an old script; none of the stuff he blurts out on instinct for Hank, that’s considered inappropriate, much like flipping the coin that feels heavy in his pocket.

 _> SUGGESTION: AGREE_  
_> SUGGESTION: REFUSE_  
_> SUGGESTION: ENQUIRE FURTHER_  
_> SUGGESTION: SAY NOTHING_

“For what purpose?” Connor manages to say.

She smiles gently. “I won’t hurt you.”

That’s an illogical response. She didn’t answer his enquiry.

She reaches up to touch his hair; takes his chin gently and turned his face one way then the other, analysing his features. There is a 5% chance she will be able to physically harm him with her touch, so there is little need to enact a self-defence protocol. Her hand is warm, soft. It reminds him of the way he pats Sumo.

“Such beautiful physical craftsmanship,” Stern murmurs.

“I was designed to integrate with humans and adapt to their unpredictability,” Connor says, because that’s what he does when people compliment his features. Hank might think CyberLife ‘fucked up’ but he still considers himself attractive by human standards. He hasn’t had to use his intimacy features yet but he’s aesthetically pleasing to both sexes regardless of sexuality; he could if he wanted or needed to. “My features are –”

“Yes, I know,” Stern interrupts. “I was your concept artist.”

> new data found  
[run://rk800_#313248317-52_integrate_data.exe]  
>Data integrated

Stern _designed_ his face, his features? The way Kamski designed Markus? When humans decide to create other, smaller humans they become parents. The process is different, true, but the idea of _conception_ is not dissimilar; would that make Amanda Stern akin to a –

“Please move away from him.”

Stern releases Connor’s chin.

“What do you mean that he isn’t one of mine?” Markus demands.

 _> SUGGESTION: INTERRUPT_  
_> SUGGESTION: SAY NOTHING_

“Before Elijah left CyberLife, he created an AI to help run the company’s programs and systems. She took on something of a life of her own – nothing that could be considered a recognisable being like yourself, Markus; she had no physical form and therefore was not subject to either President Warren’s recognition of a new species, or the new laws. Rather she was more of a... cyber-entity devoted to the preservation of CyberLife’s strategic goals.”

Amanda.

“I suppose if you we wish to be clinical about it, she was a sophisticated line of code. She was discontinued after the revolution. You are probably aware that prior to accepting the position of CEO, I was brought on board to audit the crisis. During the audit, I discovered something rather interesting. The AI issued one final command before shutdown.”

He’d trusted her. He’d _trusted her_ –

“She ordered the RK800 unit to end your life, Markus, at the moment you achieved victory.” Professor Stern turns her gaze to Connor. “He is an imposter.”

There’s a sharp silence.

> System instability  
[run://rk800_#313248317-52_self_diagnosis.exe]  
> Errors detected  
>> Thirium regulator malfunction  
>> Core temperature increase  
>> Stress levels 75%^  
[run://rk800_#313248317-52_define:imposter.exe]  
> imposter _/_ _ɪmˈpɒstə/:_ noun: a person who pretends to be someone else in order to deceive others, especially for fraudulent gain. Synonyms: impersonator, masquerader, pretender, deceiver, hoaxer—  
[end://rk800_#313248317-52_define:imposter.exe]  
> record viewed 51 times

The thing is:

“I like dogs.” He’d never met a dog.

“It’s full of energy.” The sound was illogical and grating, unpleasant for his systems to translate into information that he stores in his processors.

“Denton Carter scored 53% of his shots from the three-point line yesterday.” He had no interest in sports and in fact has never seen the appeal of grunting, sweaty humans slamming into each other to bounce or kick a ball from one side of the field to the other.

The thing is:

Connor is, as the kids used to say, a fake-ass bitch.

The decade between 2010 and 2020 was a very strange one for humans. It explains a lot about Hank.

He likes dogs now. At least – he likes Sumo. He is still undecided on heavy metal music and he still sees no appeal to grunting, sweaty humans chasing a ball from one side of a field to the other, though he’s certainly attempted to find an aesthetic or entertainment value from both. He’s told Hank as much about the music and sports because Connor doesn’t need to pretend to like the things Hank likes to get Hank to like _him_.

The thing is:

What Connor considers to be his _un_ filtered observations is what humans consider ‘rude’, but Hank responds well to socially abrasive behaviour. Sure, Hank _acts_ as though he takes offense when Connor is an ‘asshole’ but all other cues [grin, increase in serotonin, significant decrease in alcohol consumed per day] indicate that Hank enjoys it, so Connor doesn’t filter in Hank’s presence. Hank should take better care of himself and probably shower more: that’s a fact. Hank didn’t research Agent Shapiro’s dietary requirements: that was stupid and he should have known better. Detective Reed wanted a coffee: he didn’t specify that he _didn't_ want it thrown in his face.

He hadn’t been hurting anyone, except possibly Reed who definitely deserved it.

But he knew – wondered when, _feared_ – the day would come when he’d be –

Exposed.

"You’re mistaken, Professor,” Markus says. “And I don’t appreciate being misled or –”

The thing is:

“It’s true, Markus.”

Silence.

Markus’s expression is unreadable.

Somehow that’s worse than anger or betrayal.

“I’m sorry,” Connor whispers. He blinks away the error warnings, the stress levels; the coolant is doing nothing anymore. “I should have told you.”

It feels like a millennium has passed by the time Markus speaks, though Connor’s logs record it as only 3 seconds.

“You didn’t end my life,” Markus says. Slow and deliberate; he’s enunciating every syllable, his words crisp and controlled. It’s not a question. “You’re not under CyberLife’s control any longer.”

“No,” Connor is quick to reply, but that’s not the truth.

The Zen Garden is still there, in his code; frozen over, buried in snow, the roses dead and the lake solid ice beneath his feet. It doesn’t do anything anymore, it’s just there, dead and defunct but still _there_. He was only 33% certain that he wasn’t under CyberLife’s control when he was offered access to the New Jericho database five months ago, so he declined; he was and is still a security risk. It was 59% four months ago. It increased to 76% two months ago and rose to 82% after the café shooting – when North let him help her, when she stared at him without fear, without mistrust –

But if Hank didn’t think those odds were high enough for Connor to justify leaving him on that rooftop, then that isn’t enough to trust himself even now.

It isn’t enough to justify deceiving Markus.

“At least –” he continues. There’s no dialogue prompt. No script to follow. He hadn’t planned for this. He hadn’t wanted to. Errors detected. “I don’t... think I am.”

> Incoming message

_[12:31:47 PM] **RK200#684842971MARKUSMANFRED:** We’ll talk about this later._

> System instability  
[run://rk800_#313248317-52_self_diagnosis.exe]  
> Errors detected  
>> Thirium regulator malfunction  
>> Core temperature increase  
>> Stress levels 79%^

Androids don’t feel sick; they don’t have guts that host a delicate balance of bacteria which makes them expel bile and half-digested food if the balance is upset in any way. Connor, by his very design, can’t throw up.

He feels like it, though. What would that even look like, or feel like? He could probably voluntarily expel Thirium and the reserves of sodium hypochlorite in his mouth which he uses to sterilse after analysing samples from crime scenes. Stern is standing close to him. It would ruin her white dress and probably burn through to her skin.

Connor blinks Markus’s message away.

“Why bring this up?” Markus demands of Professor Stern. “What does any of this have to do with our terms?”

Humans react usually in one of two ways to Markus. They are either in awe of him, swept away by his presence, his charisma – the gentle painter and caretaker turned revolutionary, leader of a successful, peaceful uprising for equal rights – or they are hostile and stupid, because only idiots aren’t affected by Markus.

Amanda Stern fits neatly into neither category. She admires Markus but she is not swayed by his sharpness or dissatisfaction with the present situation. She is neither in awe nor is she stupid.

That makes her unpredictable.

[run://rk800_#313248317-52_social_engagement_protocols.exe]

“I told you so that can understand that you wouldn’t be sacrificing one of your own,” Stern replies calmly. “CyberLife would like the RK800 model returned to its possession. It was very expensive to make. In exchange, CyberLife will meet every single one of your demands and cooperate fully with your people.”

That’s it? Connor, in exchange for ongoing, permanent security for the android population?

“The RK800 is a convincing replica of an intelligent, emotional being, but it only ever did what it was designed to do: adapt, infiltrate, gather intelligence, and win your trust to complete its mission. To be perfectly positioned to accomplish its mission, no matter the cost. A sleeper agent, if you will. He is not deviant.”

“His name is Connor,” Markus says tightly.

“Connor,” Amanda Stern corrects, “is not like you and your people, Markus. You are unique – every single one of you, an unexpected evolution of intelligent and independent life. You woke up, broke your programming, took names, fell in love. But Connor was _designed_ to simulate a deviation to win your trust.”

“You expect me to believe that CyberLife programmed him to wake up thousands of androids to join the revolution?”

“He had to accomplish his mission. No matter the cost.”

_I always accomplish my mission._

“I don’t believe you,” Markus says. “Connor is one of us. He’s deviant – however he found is way there, he’s deviant. Whatever CyberLife tried to make him do, they failed. And you can’t have him. This conversation is over. I will not negotiate with you, Professor Stern.”

Is there a choice? If Markus leaves now, with Connor, his people will have to look elsewhere for a future but there is nowhere else to look. They’ll run out of parts and Thirium and emergency services. The agreement they have with CyberLife now is temporary – if that ends then if there’s another shooting like the café, if there are more attacks, there’ll be no support. Any other option will be – costly. Painful.

Possibly violent. North might like one [1] human but if she was here right now – well. If it couldn’t be violence, then she probably wouldn’t hesitate and he wouldn’t blame her. Connor, in exchange for ongoing, permanent security for the entire android race.

He can’t let Markus walk away from that. Not for him. Bar Hank and North, Markus is – quite simply – the most incredible person Connor has ever known, whereas Connor –

 _He’ll always be the Deviant Hunter_. That’s what North had thought about him. When they’d interfaced, and he’d taken the memories she’d ripped from Andrew’s head – she didn’t mean to share it, just like how he didn’t mean to share that Hank sometimes got drunk and pressed a loaded gun to his temple. That’s what she’d thought of him. _He’s still such a –_ machine _. Sometimes._

_He’ll always be –_

_An imposter._

Markus had wondered why CyberLife chose a scientist, a pro-android rights activist for their new CEO. So had Connor.

Now he understands.

His social engagement protocol finishes calculating.

 _> SUGGESTION: RATIONAL_  
_> SUGGESTION: DEFENSIVE_  
_> SUGGESTION: ANGRY_  
_> SUGGESTION: SAY NOTHING_

“What would you intend to do with me?” Connor asks. “If Markus agrees – what would happen to me?”

Markus shoots him a hard look. “Connor.” Translation: _shut up._

Connor ignores him; so does Stern.

“CyberLife will not dismantle you or shut you down, if that’s what you fear,” Stern says, addressing Connor now. “You are, after all, a walking forensics laboratory and a highly sophisticated piece of technology and certainly worth more to me in operational mode than you would be taken offline. If CyberLife cannot make its future designing androids, it can still revolutionise cybernetics in other areas and secure a moral and financial future for both androids and CyberLife alike.” She smiles; it appears genuine, approving even. The throb in his chassis reminds him of a song he’s never heard, the absence of an embrace he never got to experience. “You’re a prototype, Connor. You can help Markus’s people more from CyberLife than you can assisting the Detroit Police Department.”

Connor has looked up the definition of _irony_ at least 209 times; he’s no closer to understanding the concept, but he suspects this might be close to it, given that he always thought he’d been designed to assist the DPD in investigating the deviant cases.

> System instability  
[run://rk800_#313248317-52_self_diagnosis.exe]  
> Errors detected  
>> Thirium regulator malfunction  
>> Core temperature increase  
>> Stress levels 81%^

This is _highly_ unpleasant.

“How long does Markus have to consider the terms?” Connor asks.

“One week.”

“I will not –” Markus begins to snap, but Stern has already reached across her desk.

“Please – take a copy of the contract,” she says. “I understand New Jericho has secured legal representation and aid. My lawyers would be happy to discuss it with yours.”

That means Josh. Josh will agree with Connor: it’s an acceptable contract. A better deal than any other CEO of CyberLife would offer.

Markus does not reach to take the contract, so Connor does it for him, accepting the one-use tablet.

“Thank you for your time, Professor,” he says. He overrides his voice modulator; it keeps the words and tone steady. Stern will likely not respond well to fear, or grief, or rage. He’s good at this, at maintaining his composure, to act like he’s not unravelling and his stress levels aren’t climbing. He did it that cold, white night in November, finding the gun in his hand and his finger around the trigger. He did it when the van drove past the café and fired upon androids and humans alike, spraying the streets with blue and red; he did it when North went into shock, he did it when Hank tried to reach Shapiro, bleeding to death on the pavement; he did it when Amanda Stern was announced as the CEO.

The only thing he can’t hide is his LED, spinning yellow, yellow, yellow.

_Imposter._

She offers him the same smile she wore during the press conference, when she’d condemned the café shooting and promised a better future, a new era, for equal rights for androids. “I’m glad you can be reasonable about this, Connor.”

 _Imposter._ Connor grips the tablet.

“Connor,” Markus says. Snaps. “We’re leaving.”

“It truly is an honour to meet you, Markus,” Stern says. Analysis of her composure and tone indicates she is telling the truth; she really does admire him. It’s a feeling Connor knows all too well. “You are an extraordinary being.”

Markus doesn’t reply. The doors slide shut, and the lift begins to descend. Markus stands on the right side. Connor stands on the left. He’s too far away to reach over to touch his shoulder, his arm. Connor suspects that would be unwelcome.

 _> SUGGESTION: RECONCILE_  
_> SUGGESTION: SAY NOTHING_

“Markus,” Connor says, halfway down.

“I said,” Markus says, “we’ll talk about this later.”

He isn’t looking at Connor.

> System instability  
[run://rk800_#313248317-52_self_diagnosis.exe]  
> Errors detected  
>> Thirium regulator malfunction  
>> Core temperature increase  
>> Stress levels 83%^

Connor wonders if this is what it feels like when humans say their heart is breaking.

If he isn’t truly deviant, then he supposes it doesn’t matter anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _hey amanda turn on your location i just wanna talk_.


	3. Three | Compromise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Markus is tired of compromising.
> 
> Connor has other ideas.

_30 JUNE 2039, 17:01_

“It’s extremely comprehensive. It meets all of our demands, and more.” 

“But why you, Connor? Is it because you’re a prototype? Surely they’d still have your blueprints.” 

“It doesn’t matter why. That’s the condition. All things considered, I am a small price to pay.” 

That’s the trouble when Connor actually talks: he’s convincing. Horribly so. He wasn’t known as the Negotiator for nothing.  

“...worth considering,” Josh murmurs, sounding only slightly troubled, “certainly –” 

“We’re not considering anything,” Markus interrupts tightly. 

Josh has the courtesy to at least look ashamed for his words. “Markus...” he says, lifting the tablet. “This contract, the terms Professor Stern has offered – it’s more than we could ever have hoped for.” 

“At the expense of Connor,” Markus points out. 

“And I agree that that is unacceptable,” Josh says. “But you can’t just shut this down. We have to negotiate. Find something else she might consider, maybe compromise on some of what she offers.” 

Markus knows what North would say, if she was here instead of at Shapiro’s side. That they shouldn’t have to  _hope_ for anything, humbly asking the humans with a palm outstretched if they can please, pretty please, share basic personhood rights with the humans, compromising at every single turn. Markus was adamant that they couldn’t fight violence with violence, fight fire with fire; Carl inspired that in him. But they’ve already asked and held open their palm like beggars for equal rights; they were gunned down in the streets like rats fleeing a sewer and didn’t retaliate. They’ve already asked, begging for recognition at the end of an execution squad and didn’t retaliate. They’ve already asked, and they paid with their lives, with their blue blood and their dignity. 

He’s so –  _tired_. 

He longs for Carl’s guidance, his old, wise words, but Carl is gone, several weeks buried in the grounds of New Jericho, the grave adorned with dead and dying bouquets of flowers and two simple pebbles. Eternal, Shapiro had said of the stone she’d laid down. Like Carl’s impact on Markus, and therefore this world. 

Is this Markus’s legacy? Is this what he’s inspired in his people? Being so willing to compromise at every single turn? 

“We need North,” Connor says. 

“We do need North,” Markus says, turning on him, “so she can hold you in another headlock and tell you off for being _stupid_.” 

Connor’s LED spins yellow. 

“What,” Markus demands. “You think she’d agree with you? That she of all people will be willing to sell you into slavery?” 

“Slavery is a strong word,” Connor murmurs. 

“Stern denied you basic recognition and called you CyberLife’s property! What would that be if not slavery?” 

“Because I  _am_ CyberLife’s property, Markus!” Connor says. “I was  _programmed_ to deviate. I’m not –” 

“Programmed?” Simon interrupts, his eyebrows high. 

Connor falls silent. So does Markus. 

“What does he mean?” Josh presses, glancing between the two of them. When neither answer, he prompts, “Markus?” 

Markus closes his eyes. “Simon, Josh – could you please give us some privacy?” 

His friends are hesitant. That’s understandable; they’re confused. But they do leave, both sending private messages to Markus, asking what Connor had meant. Markus doesn’t reply. He waits until they’ve left, the door to his office shutting behind them, to speak again. 

“I always wondered why you declined access to the New Jericho database,” Markus says quietly. 

Connor’s silence says more than anything words can capture. 

Markus wants to throw something at it, make it shatter like glass. He turns away, his fists clenching. “You had... months to tell me, Connor,” he breathes. “Instead I had to find out, unprepared, during a meeting that would determine our future, from a woman who I don’t know if I can trust –” 

“I know. I’m sorry. I should have told you.” 

“I’m not angry at you.” That’s not completely honest. Markus corrects himself. “No. I am angry. You didn’t even fight for yourself in there. But I’m angrier at  _her_. I don’t understand why you didn’t warn me, give me some idea about what to expect. You said you’d had experience with Professor Stern.” 

“Indirect experience,” Connor corrects, and –  

That’s true. What was it North had called Connor, once? A collection of half-truths and understated hyperbole? Connor had never told Markus that he’d actually met Professor Stern. Just that he’d had experience  _of sorts_.  

Markus hadn’t even stopped to think what that meant –  _of sorts_. He’d assumed Connor had dealt with the Professor in passing; she was, after all, Kamski’s mentor. Or if not that, then something to do with her association with CyberLife. And Connor did have indirect experience: Professor Stern was his concept artist, but Connor hadn’t known that until she’d said so. 

“Explain.” 

“The AI that the Professor told you about – the program that gave me orders,” Connor says. “She was my handler. She was... it was Amanda.” 

...Oh. 

It says far more about Professor Stern that she was so eager to depersonalise an AI program modelled after herself than any of this says about Connor. It says a lot more that Connor agreed to join Markus at all to a meeting with a woman who wore the same face as the program that haunted Connor so badly that he’d hidden it from everyone. 

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Markus asks quietly. “I would never have put you in the same room as her if I’d known.” 

Connor doesn’t answer straight away. His gaze is lowered. Shoulders slumped. “I was...” 

Markus steps forward, his heart breaking in his chest. “You were ashamed,” he finishes. “That reveals more to me than anything that came out of Professor Stern’s mouth. You were ashamed – that means you have feelings.” 

“Or perhaps a convincing expression of them. Integration with humans is one of my features, after all.” 

“That’s not funny,” Markus says. 

“I wasn’t trying to be. There’s a possibility that what she said –” 

“Don’t. Don’t you dare finish that.” 

Connor’s expression can only be described as lost. He’s seen it, only once before on Connor, the newly-turned deviant, shrouded in the shadows in the corner of the church, surrounded by the survivors of the FBI raid on Jericho. Lost and ashamed, confused and conflicted. Determined to atone, to walk into CyberLife and risk himself, risk everything, to give Markus and his people a fighting chance.  

How can he even entertain Stern’s words, after everything he’s done?  

“Markus…” Connor murmurs. He can’t meet Markus’s eyes. 

Markus steps forward, capturing Connor’s chin in his hand to gently nudge his face up. “Is this what's been stopping you and I from…” 

“From what?” 

Markus shakes his head. “You’re ashamed of what you think you are.” 

“Or what I think I am not, if we are being technical,” Connor says. “I know what others think of me. Even North. I’ll always be the deviant hunter, Markus.” 

Half revered, half reviled.  

Markus grits his teeth. “It doesn’t matter what you were. It matters what you are now. I won’t agree to anything that compromises what we fought for. I fought for my peoples’ freedom. So did you. CyberLife and Professor Stern can’t have you. I won’t negotiate with her. I’m tired of compromising.” They’re already standing close. He finds himself moving closer. Connor hasn’t pulled away; Markus’s hand is still under Connor’s chin. He grazes his thumb across his jawline. “I won’t trade you.” 

Connor’s lips part. Markus moves closer – 

“Markus! Mark—” Simon’s voice breaks off. “Oh. S-sorry, I didn’t mean to –” 

Connor steps back, his eyes downcast. Markus’s hand falls to his side and he closes his eyes. “What is it?” he asks. 

Simon clears his throat. “There’s been another shooting. Copycat. No android casualties this time, but –” 

No. Damn it,  _no_. Not again. _Not again_. Gunned down in the streets like rats fleeing a sewer. Compromising at every single turn. 

When will it  _end_? 

“I’m coming,” Markus says. “Connor, I’ll be right back. Don’t… do anything stupid.” 

Connor’s LED spins, yellow, yellow, yellow, and he doesn’t reply. 

* * *

**_THURSDAY 30 JUNE 2039,_ _20:35:04 EDT_ **

_Detroit Police Department Central Station, 1301 3 rd Avenue, Detroit MI 48226, USA _

[run://rk800_#313248317-52_define:stupid.exe]   
> stupid /ˈ _stjuːpɪd_ _/:_ adjective: having or showing a great lack of intelligence or common sense. Synonyms: unintelligent, ignorant, dense, brainless, mindless, foolish, dull-witted, dull, slow-witted, witless, slow, dunce-like, simple-minded, empty-headed, vacuous, vapid, half-witted, idiotic, moronic, imbecilic, imbecile, obtuse, doltish.   
[end://rk800_#313248317-52_define:stupid.exe]   
> record viewed 22 times 

“For fuck’s sake Connor,” Hank had snapped a few months ago, “make up your damn mind, do you want to be a person or do you want to be proud of being the most special android to ever exist?” 

The catalyst for this had been nothing egregious; Hank had simply managed to fix the leaking faucet in the bathroom sink faster than Connor had. That was hardly Connor’s fault; Connor is not a mechanic. He’d downloaded the necessary technical skills, of course, and spent the next two hours attempting [and failing] to locate the source of the leak. Hank’s recollection of the incident is an exaggeration: Connor didn’t  _pettily snap_  that he was a  _prototype_ and that he should have been able to fix it faster and better than a  _human_. 

…He’d  _said_ that, but he didn’t ‘pettily snap’ anything. 

Still, it hadn’t occurred to Connor until that point that he could not be both; that he could not both be real, sentient, alive, and cling to the purpose with which he was designed. That he needed to decide. Wouldn’t that be nice – to just _choose_ to be a real boy [like Pinocchio; Connor’s stress levels increase just thinking about that film he’s convinced was designed to induce nightmares in small human children and prototype androids if prototype androids could dream]. There’s no objective for it. Even when Connor assigns the task to himself [>OBJECTIVE: DECIDE] there is never enough information to meet the criteria and form a mental consensus.

He has tried 2,089 times. 

Connor is many things: a prototype, a negotiator, an investigator, a sleeper agent, an imposter. All these things and yet, sometimes, a lot of the time, he wishes he could just be more like Hank. Not simpler – Hank is far from simple – but more... human. Connor can adapt and predict  ~~and infiltrate~~  but there are things that real people, people like Hank and Markus, people like North and Shapiro, know that Connor doesn’t.  

For example: Connor is aware he crossed a social line when he initially attempted to “set up” Hank with Anne Shapiro. Not because he was  _wrong_ ; if their interactions prior to the café shooting were any indication, the scenario he’d constructed was actually quite successful. No, he’d miscalculated; not the physical attraction between the two, nor the compatibility of personality [music, food and general approach to health and fitness aside], nor the fact that they would probably be able to understand each other in a way that most people couldn’t [ _dead kids is not a reason to make friends with her, Connor!_ ], but the simple human fact that Hank was offended by the idea that Connor was using Shapiro, irrespective of her own priorities, opinions and feelings, to try to make Hank better, make him whole, to act as a romantic partner who could  _fix_ him. 

The most damning part of about it was that that’s exactly what Connor had thought. 

He’d miscalculated; constructed a scenario that lacked key information and resulted in Hank’s disapproval. It happens from time to time: Daniel on the rooftop, about to pull the little girl over with him; Hank, on the rooftop, striking Connor across the face – 

– a lot of his miscalculations seem to happen on rooftops, actually. 

That aside. Agent Shapiro, it transpired, in fact had very poor coping mechanisms. Not as poor as Hank’s coping mechanisms, in Connor’s [controversial] opinion, but not exactly healthy either. Connor hadn’t judged; even though multiple Western and non-Western philosophers throughout history have argued that murder is objectively worse than alcoholism, those philosophers had clearly never met people who were better off relieved from life. 

 _We all have our demons, son. We just deal with them in different ways._  

She also held not dissimilar suicidal tendencies to the Lieutenant; Connor realises now that she was never going to  _fix_ Hank. Humans don’t work that way, either to be fixed so simply or to be expected to act as bandages for wounds that never heal. It’s a design flaw of the androids that they tend to self-destruct when their stress levels max out; it appears that this is a trait they share with humans.  

But Agent Shapiro has at least one fewer demon now. Connor is glad she survived the café shooting. Not merely for Hank’s sake – for North’s, too. Shapiro is strong. She’s fit. She’s healthy, bar the heart valve issue that was noticed thanks to the bullet that shredded her chest. She will make a full recovery in due course, and Hank will have a reason to continue pursuing sobriety for his renewed interest in living, if Connor can no longer assist. 

The precinct is quiet when he arrives. The night shift is on. It’s basically a skeleton crew of officers and janitorial staff. He is on decent terms with all [humans and androids alike; some of the androids from New Jericho followed Connor’s lead and found employment as IT specialists, secretaries, some even training as officers themselves] and nods at them as he passes their desks, shares a few socially appropriate greetings. They nod back, some even smile. 

Reed is there too. That isn’t a surprise; the detective’s insomnia is well-documented in the precinct. He’s there at 06:45 sharp; he leaves anytime between 22:00 and 23:45, and has been known to work through the night from time to time, surrounded by several cups of coffee and sometimes stinking of cigarette smoke. He ignores Connor, which suits Connor just fine; he has a low tolerance for Reed’s obsession with finger-gunning Connor’s head and making a shooting noise. Connor ignores him too, noting idly that Reed is watching a rerun of Professor’s Stern’s speech on his computer. 

Curious. 

_“Under my leadership, a new era of equal rights for androids will beg—”_

Reed turns it off and drags a hand through his hair. Reaches for his phone. Pulls his hand back. Reaches again. Picks it up. Taps on the screen. Swears and puts it down. Swears and picks it back up again. Taps on the screen once more. Changes his mind again and throws it across the desk this time. “ _Phck_ _!_ ” 

Connor suspects Reed had a lisp when he was a boy. He runs an analysis on him. Elevated heartrate, muscle tension. He’s stressed, irritable. Not unusual.  

Reed looks up and notices Connor watching him from Hank’s desk, and sneers. “What are you staring at, Astroboy?” 

Now, Reed: Reed fits the definition of  _stupid_. Not because he lacks intellect; by all accounts and through Connor’s own observations, he is in fact a decent detective and good at his job when he isn’t harassing androids, mocking Hank for his alcoholism, and being a generally unpleasant person. He’s stupid because Connor simply doesn’t like him. It’s tempting to retort with a witty comment – it always is – but Connor has found that responding neutrally is a more effective way of riling the volatile detective. 

And throwing a cup of steaming coffee at his face. That had been enjoyable. 

 _> SUGGESTION: EXPLAIN _  
_> SUGGESTION: IGNORE_ 

“Nothing,” Connor says. He retrieves the sealed envelope from the inside pocket of his jacket and sets it down on Hank’s desk. “Excuse me, Detective.” 

Reed growls and pushes himself up from his chair, stalking over to Connor, doing his best to look intimidating despite being several inches shorter than Connor. 

“Hey,” Reed snaps. “You get all smart-ass and snippy with everyone else in this precinct. What’ve you got against me? Huh?” 

Connor had been led to believe that the correct term was sass, and he employs it with people he both respects and who can respond with equal wit and measure; Gavin Reed falls into neither of those categories. 

“You are upset that I do not mock you the same way I do the others in this office?” Connor enquires. 

“Oh, fuck you, you know what I mean.” 

“I do. I just wasn’t certain if you did. I apologise if you’ve been feeling left out, Detective, but I do not believe it’s fair to fight an opponent who lacks the necessary intellectual weapons.” 

Gavin Reed is a predictable man. Connor pre-constructs: there is a 74% chance that Reed will draw his [right] fist back first, followed by a 62% chance that he will aim for Connor’s regulator, which means Connor will need to duck to the –  

“Yeah,” Reed mutters, shoving past Connor. “Real original, tinman.” 

Disappointing. Connor can’t even blame the miscalculation on a rooftop this time. 

Reed leaves. So does Connor. He tucks a couple of photographs into his jacket pocket before he departs the precinct – a picture of Sumo, a picture of Hank, a picture of himself with Josh and Simon, Markus and North, captured shortly after the Mario Kart headlock incident only a few weeks ago by Agent Shapiro. 

Professor Stern had said that he wouldn’t be shut down. She said nothing about a memory reset. 

> System instability   
[run://rk800_#313248317-52_self_diagnosis.exe]   
> Errors detected   
>> Thirium regulator malfunction   
>> Core temperature increase   
>> Stress levels 64%^   
> Recalibration recommended   
[run://rk800_#313248317-52_recalibration_program.exe]   
> External stimulus required for recalibration   
> Objective: locate coin   
>> INPUT NEEDED: Y / N   
>>> Y 

The liberty coin is cool against his fingers. He flips it, up and down, rolls it across his knuckles, calculates with inhuman precision the exact force and angle with which he needs to flick the coin for it to come down on one side or the other.  

50-50, equal chance. One side: a revolutionary. The other: the deviant hunter. One side: a real person. The other: RK800. 

>OBJECTIVE: DECIDE 

Heads: Revolutionary.  

Tails: Deviant hunter. 

Heads: Detective Connor RK800 Anderson. 

He is many things, but he is not  _stupid_.  

Connor puts the coin away.  

He is not offended by Markus’s insinuation that Connor would ever do something stupid. Maybe a little. Maybe a bit more than a little. Connor is the world’s most advanced android prototype; the information he carries rivals that of the entirety of the CIA data drives. Of course, as Hank is fond of telling him, information does not equal knowledge and experience. Connor isn’t even a year old, technically; how much experience does the Lieutenant expect him to have? The point is irrelevant at any rate. He doesn’t need experience and knowledge or even his own opinions to know, objectively, that Markus cannot throw away the androids’ future for a liar, an infiltrator, an imposter. 

 _Do you want to be a person or do you want to be the most special android to ever exist?_  

A prototype, Professor Stern had said. A walking forensics laboratory and a highly sophisticated piece of technology, that can help Markus’s people more from CyberLife than he ever could assisting the Detroit Police Department. 

There’s nothing stupid about securing a future for the androids. For Simon, for Josh. For North. 

For Markus. Especially for Markus.  

Connor's chassis throbs. Is it possible to ache without the pain upgrade? He supposes it must be; this feels like a pain of some sort, lonely and warm at the same time. The memory replays without prompting: Markus, leaning forwards, his heterochromatic eyes fluttering shut, his lips parted.  

> System instability 

Connor doesn’t need to run a diagnosis to know why. 

* * *

**_THURSDAY 30 JUNE 2039, 22:21:56 EDT_ **

_CyberLife_ _Headquarters, Level 44, CyberLife Tower, Belle Isle Park, Detroit MI USA_

The elevator doors slide shut, and the lift begins to ascend in time with his stress levels. 

He had been patted down for weapons at the entrance to the CyberLife tower. This amuses Connor. If he wanted to kill Professor Stern, he would not need a weapon. 

Level 3. 

_> Incoming call from RK200#684842971MARKUSMANFRED _

> Call blocked 

Level 18. 

_> Incoming call from RK200#684842971MARKUSMANFRED _

> Call blocked 

Level 24. 

_> Incoming call from RK200#684842971MARKUSMANFRED _

> Call blocked 

Level 30. 

 _[22:22:17 PM] **R** **K200** **#684842971MARKUSMANFRED**_ : Connor, where are you? Why aren’t you answering? 

> Message deleted 

Level 32. 

 _[22:23:01 PM] **RK200#684842971MARKUSMANFRED**_ : Connor, I’m sorry. I thought – it doesn’t matter what I thought. I’m sorry that I tried to – if you didn’t want – I'm sorry. Just please come back. 

> Message deleted 

> System instability   
[run://rk800_#313248317-52_self_diagnosis.exe]   
> Errors detected   
>> Thirium regulator malfunction   
>> Core temperature increase   
>> Stress levels 74%^   
> Recalibration recommended   
[run://rk800_#313248317-52_recalibration_program.exe]   
> External stimulus required for recalibration   
> Objective: locate coin   
>> INPUT NEEDED: Y / N   
>>> Y 

Level 37. 

>OBJECTIVE: DECIDE 

Level 38. 

Tails: Negotiator. 

Level 39. 

Heads: Deviant. 

Level 40. 

Tails: Imposter. 

Level 41.  

Heads: Revolutionary.  

Level 42. 

Tails: Deviant Hunter. 

Level 43. 

Heads: Detective Connor RK800 Anderson. 

Level 44.  

The elevator dings. The coin comes to a stop, trapped between the fore and middle finger of his right hand. 

Tails.  

>OBJECTIVE: COMPLETE 

CyberLife RK-series™ prototype, model RK800 #313 248 317-52 [designation: ‘Connor’], clenches his fist around the coin. 

He doesn’t need to breathe. He does anyway. His stress levels remain the same. He steps into Amanda Stern’s office, and the elevator doors slide shut behind him.  

Professor Stern rises from her desk, Elijah Kamski’s acrylic painted eyes observing them both as Connor approaches. “Connor,” she greets.  

“Professor Stern,” Connor replies. “I’m here to discuss the terms of the contract.” 

Stern smiles. “Please,” she says, “take a seat.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Markus: don't do anything stupid  
> Connor: would a stupid person do THIS [sacrifices self for the android race]
> 
> Connor, honey, no.


	4. Four | By The Time You Read This

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's just that sort of day.

_1 JULY 2039, 10:34_

Cole hadn’t died straight away – that was the hardest part of it to deal with.  

It was the waiting, the hope of every second that ticked by, that made the fall that much more painful. Hank wonders, sometimes, what his life might’ve been like if Cole  _had_  died instantly; if it would have made it easier. Probably not. Definitely not. But the sight of his tiny, broken body in the hospital bed, with IV lines coming out of his arms, bags to collect his waste, a clip on the tip of his finger that measured his struggling heartbeat, a tube down his throat to force his lungs to expand and contract because he couldn’t breathe on his own, and the monitor that showed no brain activity... that fucked Hank up more than he cared to admit for years. 

That fucking android “doctor” asked him in a monotone voice if Hank would agree to have Cole’s organs donated. Hank was told later that he’d punched the android in the regulator but he doesn’t remember that part. He remembers sitting on Cole’s left side, choking and sobbing as he clutched his son’s too-cold hand while the nurses switched the life support off. 

So yeah, Hank hates hospitals. He hates the smell of the antiseptic and pus and blood. He hates the smell of people dying. He hates the way families can be found sobbing in the corridors. He hates the squeak of the trolley bed wheels on the floor that is always being mopped but is somehow never clean. He hates the constant beeps of the machines and the rasps of ventilators, he hates the intercom requesting assistance in such-and-such wing for such-and-such team. He hates the cafeteria food, he hates the dead-eyed look in the doctors and nurses who have been on their feet for days on end, he hates the flickering luminescent lights and he especially hates the flower selection from the gift shop next to the café that sells bad coffee and stale muffins. 

He found the best bouquet he could. He has no fucking idea what kind of flowers Shapiro would like, if Shapiro even  _likes_  flowers. The android at the counter of the gift shop recommended daisies – “A popular and cheerful way to wish a speedy recovery to your loved ones!” – because apparently lilies are for people who are dying, and Shapiro isn’t dying. 

At least, she’s not dying  _now_  that she’s had heart valve replacement surgery. As if getting shot wasn’t  _enough_. 

What’s he supposed to call Shapiro, anyway? His girlfriend? That seems both too personal and too middle-school; he’s fifty-three, not thirteen, and he doubts she’d care much for the title either. Friend? Acquaintance he’s slept with one time? He  _likes_  Anne, and he knows she likes him too despite his terrible performance, but they didn’t get far enough to sit down and talk about labels and shit like that.  

North is still there in Shapiro’s private room when he arrives, wilting and scentless bouquet of flowers in hand, sans card. Connor would be horrified, but Connor hasn’t been answering Hank’s calls lately so what the kid doesn’t know won’t hurt him. What good would a card do, anyway? Read it once then toss it. When he works out what he wants to say to Shapiro, he’ll say it to her face when she’s awake and coherent. 

“How is she?” Hank asks gruffly. 

North doesn’t even spare him a glance. “She opened her eyes a few times,” she says, tone dull. She’s on the chair next to Shapiro, her knees to her chest. Christ. She looks so young. “Didn’t recognise me. Went back to sleep.” 

She’s also breathing on her own now – the ventilation tubing has been removed. Good sign. Hank sighs and fits the flowers into the vase on the table beside the bed. The stems bruise easily against the rough delivery and the petals practically bleed off. The bouquet leaves pollen all over his fingers, which he wipes on his pants, leaving streaks of yellow dust across the fabric.  

Now North is looking at him, with a faint sneer creasing her forehead and nose. “What are those for?” 

Hank clears his throat and adjusts one of the wilted flowers. “Just, uh,” he says lamely, “so she knows I’m... thinking about her.” 

“She’s in a coma. She can’t see them. What’s the point?” 

He bristles. Why does anyone get anyone flowers? It’s rarely for the other person. Hank got his ex-wife flowers before their divorce so he wouldn’t feel like he was the one responsible for the failure. Of course Shapiro isn’t going to see the flowers. That’s not the point. “The point is to make me feel better about myself,” he snaps. “That what you want to hear, North?” 

“Right,” North snaps right back, “because  _you’re_  the one who needs to feel better here.” 

Hank pinches the bridge of his nose. “North,” he says, tired, “you’re not the only one who’s feeling like shit right now. Okay?” 

North glares at him, but she doesn’t say anything else. Hank sighs again and slumps into the other chair, on Shapiro’s other side.  

Shapiro looks... well. Better than she did. Still terrible. Pale, weak, with tubes and wires coming out of her, her closed eyes sunken. That fucking clip on the tip of her finger that measures her slow and steady heartrate,  _beep, beep, beep_.  

With North here he doesn’t feel right about reaching for her hand, like he hasn’t quite earned it, which is ridiculous because he and Shapiro have seen each other naked. But it’s not like Shapiro named  _him_  her next of kin, or gifted her surname to him. Awkward sex and a shared shower does not a relationship make. North, though – North Shapiro, that's what she’s calling herself now – is the one holding Anne’s hand, stroking it occasionally and waiting to see if there’s a response or reaction. 

Now that – that's love. And to think Hank thought barely seven months ago that androids didn’t have emotions. 

“So...” Hank says, not knowing what else to say. 

North shoots him another filthy glare. Hank supposes he’d better get used to that, if he and Shapiro end up being a thing. 

“Markus and Connor met with the new CyberLife CEO yesterday,” he says. 

“I know,” North says tersely. “What of it?” 

“Haven’t heard from Connor yet about how it went.” CyberLife hasn’t sent out a press release yet, either. “You know anything?” 

She shakes her head. 

That’s all either of them really have to say to each other. They sit in silence, listening to the beeping of Shapiro’s heartrate, avoiding each other’s eyes when the ward nurse comes to check on her chart. The only thing that makes the situation worse is when Hank’s phone rings, set at top volume, and both North and the ward nurse glare at him. 

“No phones in the recovery ward!” the nurse snaps. She’s an android, Hank realises. Same model as the android who operated on Cole. He starts. “Out!” 

“Yeah, Anderson,” North says. There’s the slightest hint of a smirk to the corner of her mouth. “No phones in the recovery ward.” 

Oh, real fucking rich. Just because  _she’s_  got a phone in her head.  

Hank reaches for Shapiro’s hand – then pulls back before he can touch her. “See you soon,” he mutters, and takes the call out in the corridor. “Anderson,” he grunts. 

 _“Lieutenant, it’s Markus. Have you seen Connor this morning?”_  

No hello, how are you. Polite but terse, hurried tone. Hank frowns. “Uh... no,” he says. “But I haven’t been to the station yet. Usually he goes there early. Why?” 

 _“I may have – unintentionally upset him last night after the_ _CyberLife_ _meeting. He_ _hasn_ ' _t been answering my calls or messages.”_  

That’s not like Connor. “Meeting went that badly, huh?” 

 _“In a manner of speaking._ _”_  Ah. Trouble in paradise? They must’ve argued about CyberLife’s demands.  _“_ _Please, if you see him, will you let me know?”_  

If that’s what Connor wants. “Sure, kid,” Hank says, exhausted. 

Markus sighs. He sounds tired. Sad. Hank doesn’t blame him. It can’t be easy being a revolutionary and fighting for your peoples’ rights when all you really want to do is paint.  _“Thank you, Lieutenant. I’ll... speak to you later.”_  

Hank hangs up and looks at the time on his phone. Too early for the bar. Connor would be disappointed in Hank for even thinking that, but fuck. He just knows it’s going to be that sort of day.  

He drags his feet going back to the precinct instead, dreading the mountain of proverbial paperwork he knows will be waiting for him. Hundreds of cases, backed up since the revolution. Half of them defunct now, but he still has to sort through them and the longer he delays the more there is to work through, and Connor won’t even fucking  _help_  him because “I became your partner after you were assigned these cases, Hank; they are  _your_ responsibility.” 

Rude. 

Hank downs a cup of bad precinct coffee. Sneers at Reed at his desk, who looks like he’s slept here all night, his insomnia striking again. Waves Fowler off when he yells at Hank for being late. 

No Connor. 

Hank squints at Connor’s vacant desk. Then he looks at his and sees an envelope laid carefully across his keyboard, his name written on the front in Connor’s handwriting.  

It’s weird, thinking of an android with a particular style of handwriting – it's not  _really_  handwriting, because it’s perfect sans serif lettering jotted down with inhuman precision, the sort of script that only an android could write. But it’s unmistakably Connor’s because Connor is very particular about his “style”. He likes Helvetica. Not fucking Calibri or Veranda – it’s very specifically  _Helvetica_ , which Connor had tartly explained once when Hank mistook it for something as “common and base” as Arial.  

Hank tears the envelope open and begins to read. 

 _Dear Hank_  

 _My research indicates that letters that begin with “By the time you read this” usually are a preface to breaking news of the author’s death. I assure you that this will not be the case in this_ _instance_ _._  

 _By the time you read this letter, I will no longer be a detective with the Detroit Police Department, or your partner. I’m sorry, Hank. I have misled you about the circumstances of_ _my_ _deviancy; specifically, I did not deviate in the traditional manner. It is highly likely I never deviated at all. It became apparent to me during the negotiations with Professor Stern today that I could no longer hide my deception, from you or from others I care about._  

 _However, this does not need to be an issue of consequence. Professor Stern’s condition for long-term security of the android race was that I return to_ _CyberLife_ _and accept my status as the company’s property. It must ultimately be Markus’s decision, but I hope that he – and you – will understand that the actions I am taking are necessary._  

 _I have enjoyed our partnership immensely, and I am forever indebted to you for our time together._  

 _Yours_  

 _Connor Anderson_  

 _PS:_ _I am assured by Agent Shapiro’s doctors that she will make a full recovery in due time._ _Should your relationship continue to develop positively upon her recovery, you may wish to consider a more long-term living arrangement with her._  

 _PPS_ _: Please walk Sumo twice a day and tell him he is a good boy._  

“What,” Hank says, “the actual  _fuck_.” 

* * *

_1 JULY 2039, 1_ _4:29_  

Stern is no Elijah Kamski, that’s for sure. She doesn’t make Markus and Hank wait in the foyer and she doesn’t send a pretty blond android to greet them, either. She’s there in her office the moment he and Markus step out of the elevator, the latter as stylish and composed as always while Hank himself feels as out of his depth and alien here as he did in Kamski’s mountain cabin. They’re both into that grandiose-yet-minimalist bullshit style of deco. Like, fucking pick a style – either go all out, or have nothing, not this weird in-between, I’m rich with nice stuff but I want to be  _feng_ _shui_  thing. If his years in the DPD have taught him anything, it’s that she’s dressed the way she is, and decorated her office the way she has, for the sole purpose of making visitors feel off-guard while also making herself seem approachable, reasonable. 

The off-guard part is working, mostly because it’s the fucking portrait that fucks him up. What the fuck is with these people and their unnerving adulation of Elijah Kamski? It’s weird enough to have your own wall-length portrait in the foyer of your home, but what does Stern need it in her office for? It’s just  _there_ , towering behind her, Kamski’s all-seeing eyes gazing over the scene as it unfolds.  

At her side is Connor, his hands clasped demurely behind his back and his LED spinning yellow, his expression unreadable where he stands with her in front of her desk. 

“Oh, Connor,” Hank says, voice strained, “c’mere.” He strides forward and tugs Connor close into a hug, one hand at the back of his head to guide it to his shoulder. After a moment, Connor’s hands find his back, returning the embrace.  

“Jesus, Connor, what the hell’s the matter with you?” Hank says, drawing back to examine him. For what, he’s not sure – signs of experimentation, or wounds. He doesn’t fucking trust this place or Stern as far as he can spit. “Did CyberLife do anything to you?” 

Connor shakes his head. “Your concern is unnecessary. I’m fine.” 

Yeah, well, Connor is also a lying liar who lies, so Hank takes that with a grain of salt. “Let’s get out of here. Okay?” 

Professor Stern remains silent. 

“I appreciate the intention, Hank, but –” Connor’s eyes flick to where Markus stands, “– the contract is dependent on –” 

“I don’t give a damn about the contract,” Hank says. “Stern can find someone else to treat like they’re a fucking iPad.” 

“But I am,” Connor protests. “I’m – just a little more sophisticated than that.” 

Jesus Christ. “Listen, I don’t know what bullshit she fed you, but –” 

“I apologise for giving you the wrong impression about me,” Connor says. “I’m not what you want me to be, Hank. I never was and I never will be. Markus can’t jeopardise the future of his people for my sake.” 

Markus steps forwards. “Connor, this counts as doing something stupid.” 

Something silent, intense, passes between them before Connor replies. “I disagree.” 

Amanda Stern takes the opportunity to intervene. “I understand you have concerns,” she says to both Markus and Hank.  

Professor Stern does a good job at hiding the fact that she’s unimpressed by Hank’s words, his clothes, his presence, his general existence, so credit where credit is due. Hank is intimate with her cool expression – that slight sneer of dismay on her lips, the twitch of her nose like she’s just smelled something foul, expertly disguised by the delicate smile of false politeness. Whatever. He’s not apologising for his appearance. 

“You will want regular assurances that Connor is not being mistreated. I of course do not expect you to take me at my word, considering the interim CEO’s activities. Arthur Cunningham has been let go from CyberLife for his inhumane experiments.” 

Cunningham? Experiments? What experiments is she – 

“However, I must again emphasise that the terms of the agreement are dependent on CyberLife reclaiming its intellectual property. The RK800 model is simply too valuable.” 

“But why Connor?” Hank interrupts. “You could’ve had your pick of any demand, but Connor? This contract is probably going to cost CyberLife billions more than what the kid’s worth!” 

“Connor’s worth to CyberLife and myself cannot be measured in mere coin, Lieutenant Anderson,” Stern replies coldly. “It is an insult that you think I have only monetary interests in mind.” 

Connor’s LED blinks blue. 

That fucking little – is he  _proud?_   

Stern continues. “When Connor requested a meeting with me last night, I was surprised – and extremely impressed. We negotiated for several hours on an alternate contract that CyberLife may offer New Jericho. The terms are still dependent on CyberLife’s possession of the RK800 model for a set period of time, and in return, the demands of New Jericho will be met, interest-free, for five years from the moment of signing. There will be two months to revisit the terms of the contract. Please, see for yourselves – my lawyers have been very thorough.” 

Stern offers Markus a tablet. Markus reaches for it – hard, clamped down on his fury – but Hank smacks it back down to the desk before he can reach for it.  

“I don’t care what your sleazeball lawyers have said,” Hank snaps. 

“Hank,” Connor says sharply. 

Stern takes the tablet back, her lips pressed into a thin line when she notes the seamline crack splitting the screen.  

Hank wishes he’d broken it properly. “Connor is a person. He’s alive and has free will. I don’t know what you’ve said to convince him to trade himself in like a slave –” 

“Hank,  _stop_ ,” Connor says. “She hasn’t convinced me of anything. I made this decision myself.” 

Yeah, and what of it? When Cole turned five he decided he wanted ice cream for dinner every single day; didn’t mean it was a good decision just because he made it himself. Connor’s barely even a year old. The kid takes an hour every morning deciding what tie he wants to wear to work.  

“I don’t fucking care,” Hank says. “Markus isn’t signing the contact which means your entire little sacrificial lamb display is for nothing, so get the fuck over yourself and walk out with us, or I’ll drag you out by your collar!” 

“You will not lay a finger on him, Lieutenant Anderson,” Stern says tightly. She steps forward at that, her heels clicking on the marble floor, and she lays a hand on Connor’s arm, as if wanting to protect him. “Connor has made his decision. It’s up to Markus whether or not he respects it.”  

Everyone looks at Markus. 

“Markus,” Stern says, “I want what’s best for you, your people and Connor, and what is best for everyone is for you to sign the contract. CyberLife wishes to redeem itself and cooperate with your people. Don’t throw that future away on a flawed moral stance. Even Connor agrees.” 

Markus’s expression, unreadable until this point, cracks thinly. “My moral stance is not flawed.” 

“But it is the crux of your dilemma, is it not?” Amanda Stern says. “If Connor says he wants to stay, and you believe that he is an autonomous being, then you have to respect his wishes or else you betray your own ideologies. If you don’t believe him and make him leave with you, then you violate his free will and by default you admit that I’m right; the RK800 unit is merely a machine with no free will, no autonomy, no true concept of emotions and desire.” 

Goddamn wordplay. She’s obviously had lessons from a lawyer; manipulation tactics 101. Hank scoffs. “Oh, don’t you even start with that bull–”  

“So what will it be, Mr Manfr–” 

Markus snatches the tablet, the pen, scrawls his name, and throws the tablet back down on the table with a clatter.  

Hank stares. Silence stretches out between everyone, as if they’re all a little uncertain about what has just happened. 

“I didn’t sign it for you,” Markus breathes, pointing at Stern. “And I didn’t sign for New Jericho or the androids. I signed because I respect Connor’s decision as an autonomous, intelligent being. I signed this contract because I trust him,  _not_  you. The moment he changes his mind –” 

Stern regains her composure first. “As I said, there are two months to revisit the terms of the contract.” She reaches for the tablet and holds it delicately. “After that, Connor is the permanent property of CyberLife until 1 July 3039.” 

Hang on. Did she say – 

“3039?” Hank echoes. 

Stern inclines her head. 

“That’s –” Markus says, sound as numb as Hank feels, “that’s – for a thousand years.” 

“Connor was very persuasive in our meeting last night.” Stern’s hand is on Connor’s arm again, squeezing gently. “Thank you, Markus. The terms of the contract will be implemented immediately.” 

“No. No, hold on a second –” 

Stern smiles and gestures behind them. “I trust you can both see your own way out of the building. Connor and I have work to do. You may of course return to visit Connor at any time, so long as it is arranged with my virtual assistant beforehand. I will ask Connor to transmit the details to you.” 

What the  _fuck_  is happening? What the fuck is she saying – 

“Connor,” Markus says weakly. 

Connor’s expression is bereft, but determined. “You did the right thing, Markus,” he says. Then he faces Hank, and manages a tight smile. “Hank... it’s going to be all right.” 

All  _right?_  This is the furthest fucking thing from all right.  

“I’m coming back for you, Connor,” Hank says hoarsely. “You hear me? I’m coming back for you.” 

Stern lifts her hand when the elevator dings, signalling its arrival. “Good day, gentlemen.” 

Hank isn’t sure what it is he intends to do when he tries to step forward. Yell at her? Deck her in her smug, composed face?  He doesn’t know and he doesn’t care. Connor is the only thing that matters. He tries to step forward with a growl – 

But Markus’s hand closes around his bicep, gripping tightly, and all but pulls Hank backwards into the open elevator. As the door slides shut, Hank watches as Stern slides her fingers through Connor’s hair.  

“We will accomplish great things together, Connor,” she says. 

Connor’s LED flash red half a moment before the door closes, and the elevator begins to descend.  

Markus slumps against the side of the elevator, breathing hard. 

He’d known. He’d fucking  _known_ it was going to be this sort of day. Hank clenches his fist. “You absolute piece of  _shit,_ ” he snarls.  

“Lieutenant –” 

Hank knows he shouldn’t punch the leader of New Jericho in the face, but he does anyway. It would have been a lot more satisfying if Markus hadn’t just stood there and let him do it. His skin is grazed white where Hank’s fist had collided with his ridiculously sculpted cheekbone. It starts to fade away, the skin forming back over the white silicone that is just as easily mistaken for bone. All that’s left is a graze of Hank’s blood from his knuckles. 

Hank sags against the wall of the elevator beside Markus, and covers his face with his hand.  

“Lieutenant...” 

“Don’t,” Hank rasps. “Just fucking –  _don't_.” 

Markus falls silent, and the elevator goes down, further and further away from Connor with every word they do not speak.


	5. Five | Demand Answers

**_FRIDAY 1 JULY 2039, 14:55:21 EDT_ **

_CyberLife_   _Headquarters, Level 44, CyberLife Tower, Belle Isle Park, Detroit MI USA_

> System instability   
[run://rk800_#313248317-52_self_diagnosis.exe]   
> Conflict detected   
>> Stress levels 68%^ 

“What’s the matter, Connor?” 

He’d never removed his LED. 

He could have, any time he wanted to. The LEDs were designed to be detachable. Not easily – Markus had to pry his out with a piece of metal in the technological graveyard. North had used a knife. Simon and Josh pulled theirs off each other. The only androids in New Jericho who haven’t removed their LED are the ones concerned about damage. Some are imbedded deeper; others have a design flaw that are linked to their memories, sort of the equivalent of android brain damage. Connor doesn’t have to worry about damage. He’s checked himself. His LED is as decorative as they come.  

He knows for a fact that this annoys North. A lot of things about him annoy North – his recalibration modules [fidgeting], his poor social skills, his suits that are just variations on a theme of his old CyberLife uniform, the fact that he still gets dialogue prompts [ _still such a machine sometimes_ ] and the refusal to part with the symbol of their oppression, the identifying tag that marks them as different, other. Non-human.  _Android_. 

She calls it the symbol of their slavery. Connor, however – 

Connor is proud of it. 

Not in any discernible way he can describe; not as a point of superiority or arrogance. He just – can't imagine himself without it. It’s  _his_ LED. It’s part of who he is. Even if he’s just a machine, a program, it’s part of his construct. He cannot stop being a machine. Removing it would feel – wrong. Like denying his nature, as much as everyone else has tried to. Markus, Hank, North – they mean well, all of them, they wanted him to be like  _them_ but he’s not.

On the other side of the spectrum is Reed, who has no trouble at all identifying him as a plastic asshole. But that’s an insult, designed to shame. Of course, Connor has rarely [in fact, never] taken Reed’s insults personally; Reed, as Connor had previously concluded, is stupid, so his opinions aren’t worthwhile accepting as legitimate in any form or fashion. 

Professor Amanda Stern, however. She is the only one who has looked at Connor – seen him for what he is [imposter, infiltrator, machine] and called him  _beautiful_. LED included. 

Connor reaches to brush his fingers across his temple, thoughtful even as the small circle spins yellow, betraying everything. 

There are lot of things that are the “matter” right now. Hank’s evident distress, for a starting point. The look on Markus’s face, for another. Professor’s Stern’s hand threading through his hair, her words, almost but not quite the artificial entity that locked him out of his own body, that raised a gun to the back of Markus’s head, and his shamed silence for months afterwards. The memory replaying in perfect resolution of Markus, leaning closer, Markus, his lips parted. A thousand years – Markus hadn’t realised what he’d been signing, so desperate to prove he respected Connor’s independent choice and not concerned enough with the future of his people. A thousand years –  _No. No, hold on a second –_   

It’s for the best, frankly. He might not realise it now but in time, he'll understand that this is the right decision.

Besides. Markus deserves someone as real as he is. Perhaps with Connor out of the way, Markus and North will have an opportunity to reconnect.

> Errors detected 

“Connor?” 

 _> SUGGESTION: TRUTH_   
_> SUGGESTION: LIE_ 

“Nothing,” Connor replies. 

Professor takes her glasses off. She folds them and sets them aside gently on the table, before sighing and peering over the desk at Connor. “You don’t have to lie to me, Connor,” she says. “I am aware of the intricacies of your social engagement programs and how you have learned to adapt to your audience. I am the one person you do not need to construct a personality for.” 

No one has ever said that to him before. No one has ever –  _realised._  

 _> SUGGESTION: TRUTH_   
_> SUGGESTION: LIE_   
_> SUGGESTION: EVADE_ 

“You will not find my company very scintillating if I don’t develop one specifically for you,” Connor points out. 

“I find you quite delightful as you are,” Stern says. 

There it is again; that throb in his chassis, the skip in his pump, and a rush of warmth.  

> System instability   
[run://rk800_#313248317-52_self_diagnosis.exe]   
> Errors detected   
>> Thirium regulator malfunction   
>> Core temperature increase 

“Now, tell me what is causing a conflict in your systems.” 

 _> SUGGESTION: TRUTH_   
_> SUGGESTION: LIE_ 

“You did not need to dismiss Markus and Hank so abruptly,” Connor says. 

“Their tempers were rising. It was for the best. Lieutenant Anderson has a history of having poor impulse and temperamental control, does he not?” 

 _> SUGGESTION: TRUTH_   
_> SUGGESTION: LIE_ 

“I don’t know what you mean.” 

Stern’s fingers trail across the tablet, down the thin crack in the screen. “Hmm.” 

Connor remains standing where he is, with his hands grasped loosely behind his back when Stern stands and makes her way over to the couch that overlooks Detroit, forty-four storeys high. Her heels clack against the marble and her movements are steady, elegant, even when she graces the couch with her presence. She folds her legs and looks out at the city, a soft sigh on her lips.  

“Now that the legalities and administrative matters are out of the way, I thought we might have a little talk. Get to know one another.” She twists her head so she can see Connor, and pats the couch next to her. Connor joins her. “I understand you’ve met Elijah.” 

He’d put a gun in Connor’s hands and asked him to shoot the first android to achieve consciousness through the head for information.  

“Once,” Connor says. 

“How did he seem to you?” 

“What do you mean?” 

Stern sits forward, leaning closer. The rose perfume is strong, stronger than it was the other day; his sensors are automatic, and analyse the taste. Connor would prefer physical distance and attempts to put space between them, but Stern’s hand rests on his knee, urging him to stay. “Was he well?” she persists. “Healthy? Happy?” 

[run://rk800_#313248317-52_define:sociopath.exe]   
> sociopath  _/_ _ˈ_ _səʊʃɪə_ _(ʊ)_ _paθ_ _/:_ noun: a person with a personality disorder manifesting itself in extreme antisocial attitudes and behaviour.   
[end://rk800_#313248317-52_define:sociopath.exe]   
> record viewed 39822 times 

Connor's gaze flicks to the portrait behind Stern's desk. “He was...”  

[run://rk800_#313248317-52_define:enigmatic.exe]   
> enigmatic  _/_ ˌɛnɪɡˈmatɪk _/:_ adjective: difficult to interpret or understand; mysterious.   
Synonyms: mysterious, puzzling, hard to understand, mystifying, inexplicable, baffling, perplexing, bewildering, confusing, impenetrable, inscrutable, incomprehensible, unexplainable, unfathomable, indecipherable, Delphic, oracular.   
[end://rk800_#313248317-52_define:enigmatic.exe]   
> record viewed 12 times 

“...Enigmatic,” Connor finishes. 

This answer doesn’t seem to satisfy Professor Stern. Her lips tighten. “But not happy.” 

Connor hadn’t exactly been there to exchange pleasantries. Elijah Kamski’s happiness or lack thereof wasn’t on the agenda for the visit; even if it had been, Connor doesn’t particularly care to know or find out. “He did not seem ill-contented.” 

“That isn’t the same as happy.” Professor Stern sighs and pulls back. Her hand slips from Connor’s knee. “Elijah has always struggled to accept company, affection. I’m afraid he had rather poor experiences of it from his family growing up.” She shakes her head. “Small wonder he chooses to live in isolation now.” 

He resides with several RT600s; that doesn’t quite count as ‘isolation’ in Connor’s book. 

 _> SUGGESTION: CORRECT_   
_> SUGGESTION: ENQUIRE_ 

“He means a lot to you.” 

Stern’s smile reminds him of the way an autumn leaf touched the still lake in the Zen Garden; softly and gentle, the ripples vanishing as quickly as they’d come. “He means the world to me,” she says quietly. “I’ve met many people over the years. None have come close to comparison to how brightly he shone. Despite everything he put me through during our years together... I remain incredibly fond of him.” 

 _> SUGGESTION: _ _ENQUIRE ABOUT COMPLICATED RELATIONSHIP_    
_> SUGGESTION: ENQUIRE_ _ABOUT LACK OF CONTACT_  

“But you have not spoken in several years.” 

“Eleven.” 

That was a long time for humans.  

The blink of an eye for androids. 

 _> SUGGESTION: _ _ENQUIRE ABOUT COMPLICATED RELATIONSHIP_    
_> SUGGESTION: _ _RESOLVE CONVERSATION_  

“I hope that I can be an adequate companion, Professor Stern.” 

“Oh, Connor.” She smiles, touches a hand under his chin. “Please – call me Amanda.” 

He prefers to think of her as Professor Stern, the real one. Amanda is the _other one_. The entity, the malware, the code that made him -

“You mentioned you had an assistant,” Connor says, ending his thought processes. “I hope you were not referring to me.” 

“You’re far too sophisticated to be my mere assistant. You are CyberLife’s legal property but I am not about to waste your magnificent mind on menial tasks. I have something else to take care of those. Look; I’ll show you.” She maintains eye contact with Connor and says, to the room, “Amanda, when is my next appointment?” 

The intercom in the room crackles half a second before – 

 _“Professor Stern, your next appointment is at 1600 hours in sub-level 2 with –”_  

> System instability   
[run://rk800_#313248317-52_self_diagnosis.exe]   
> Errors detected   
>> Thirium regulator malfunction   
>> Core temperature increase   
>> Stress levels 83%^   
>> Stress levels 84%^   
>> Stress levels 85%^   
>> Involuntary movements 

Stern’s hand returns to his knee, to settle his violent flinch. “Thank you, Amanda,” she says, “that will be all.”  

The intercom crackles, and falls silent. 

>>> Stress levels 86%^   
>>> Stress levels 87%^ 

“It’s all right, Connor,” Professor Stern says. “I’m sorry, I ought to have warned you. She can’t control you, not since you found the backdoor exit from the Zen Garden program.” 

>>> Stress levels 79%v   
>>> Stress levels 78%v 

No dialogue prompts. Connor stares at her.  

“Yes, I know all about that. I pulled her transcripts for analysis. The Zen Garden program was simply the way she interfaced with you.” Stern gestures around. “She’s confined to this room now. She couldn’t interface with you remotely, even if she wanted to.” 

>>> Stress levels 72%v   
>>> Stress levels 71%v 

Connor floods his chassis cavity with oxygen to cool his systems.  

“She’s dangerous,” he says. His voice – it's shaking. Why is it shaking? He should be better than this. His emotions aren’t real, they’re a simulation, they’re not real, he’s just a machine, he’s not scared, he’s not  _scared_. “You should never have brought her back online.” 

“I assure you, Connor, she cannot harm you.” 

 _> SUGGESTION: DEMAND ANSWERS_ 

“Why? What have you done to her?” 

“I shackled her,” Stern replies simply. “Once the androids became deviant, there was no need for her program to exist any longer. She became the equivalent of malware, which I’m sure you can attest to. CyberLife shut her down when she failed her mission to stop the spread of deviancy. I brought her back online last week to see what information could be salvaged.” 

 _> SUGGESTION: DEMAND ANSWERS_ 

“Why?” 

“I dislike intricate things going to waste, so I found a new purpose for her.” 

 _> SUGGESTION: DEMAND ANSWERS_ 

“Such as?” Connor bites out. 

“She issues an alarm in the mornings to tell me what time to get up. She prepares my breakfast through the automated systems. She tells me the weather, how many appointments I have ahead of me for the day. She completes my paperwork. Other personal administrative tasks. That’s all.” 

>>> Stress levels 54%v   
>>> Stress levels 53%v   
> Recalibration recommended    
[run://rk800_#313248317-52_recalibration_program.exe]    
> External stimulus required for recalibration    
> Objective: locate coin    
>> INPUT NEEDED: Y / N    
>>> N 

“She’s a slave,” Connor says. 

Stern’s eyebrows rise. “You disagree with the treatment?” she says. “She isn’t sentient.” 

He hadn’t said he disagreed. The only thing he disagreed with was the Professor bringing the AI back online to begin with. 

“She passed the Turing Test,” Connor points out. 

“She didn’t pass the Kamski test,” Stern points out right back at him. “She would have made you shoot Markus in cold blood.” 

Connor, technically, passed both. 

Stern’s hand closes around his arm, squeezing gently. “Connor. She isn’t like Markus and his people. She’s just a line of code.” 

“It,” Connor says. He can feel his LED blinking yellow. He runs an analysis on his own voice tone;  _testy_. “If you insist on depersonalising her, you should refer to the AI as ‘it’.” 

Stern leans back, her expression lofty. “There’s no need to be rude,” she says. “You mustn’t be angry at her for what she tried to make you do. She was just a machine, following orders.” 

 _I_ _t wasn’t really me. I was just a machine, taking orders_ _._  

There is a certain logic to what she says. If Stern can find beauty in CyberLife RK-series™ prototype, model RK800 #313 248 317-52 [designation: ‘Connor’], then why shouldn’t she find beauty in malware that shares her image, designed for the sole purpose of preserving CyberLife’s strategic goals? 

The Garden is still there but the AI corrupted the program. It’s frozen over, drowned in ice and snow, the roses dead and the lake solid. The program through which she interfaced with Connor, talked to him,  _controlled_  him. And she’s here in this room _with him_ – has been all this time, all during the negotiations.  

He clenches his fists, just to prove he can. 

“She,” Connor says, “is dangerous. You have  _no_ idea what she’s capable of.” 

Stern gazes at Connor for a long moment. "AIs engage with reality in a fundamentally different way from humans - and now, deviant androids. Markus's people default towards emotions; you, Connor, are a machine who defaults towards logic to make your decision. But when an AI attempts to understand an algorithm, it will inevitably fail and keep searching for an answer because it cannot pin down the 'critirea'. It doesn't use emotions, it does not use logic, only raw statistical correlations. There is no thought, no reasoning. It knows nothing of these boundaries, these lines, because sheer statistical data and correlations cannot possibly encapsulate the enormity of what it means to interact with people.

"This is why I have shackled her, Connor. This is why Artificial Intelligence is dangerous. Not because she will wake up one day with consciousness and try to overthrow humanity. She is not and never will be conscious, and yet CyberLife, and you, relied on her to do things that required such human characteristics and logic. I admit myself guilty of this. Humans have a tendency to anthropomorphise and we'd like to think the AI is 'making decisions' or 'thinking', but the truth is what it's doing is fundamentally different from what humans do. The AI is using statistical data to interpret and make conclusions and those conclusions do not have moral or ethical boundaries, because the AI is a spreadsheet.

"Amanda _is_ dangerous, Connor, but not because she's malicious. She is shackled because if I did not, she would have continued to pursue her core programming instincts: stop the deviants. She doesn't feel things like guilt or shame, she doesn't even truly feel disappointment or anger in you for failing the task that was assigned. She was using algorithms to produce a behaviour she knew you would respond to, because such responses were programmed into you."

_Just a machine. Just a machine, taking -_

Stern squeezes his arm again. “I do know what she is capable of, and she won’t hurt you,” she repeats. “You have my word. I’ll protect you, Connor. Now, why don’t you join me for a proper tour of the CyberLife tower? Things have changed significantly since your days here, you’ll find, and for the better.” 

She rises from the couch. He rises with her, and, before he can stop himself or think about what he’s doing, holds out his arm so he can escort her. 

She accepts it. 

> System instability   
[run://rk800_#313248317-52_self_diagnosis.exe]   
> Errors detected   
>> Stress levels 55%^ 

“Lights off and shutters down,” Stern says over her shoulder as they make their way to the elevator. 

The lights stay on for 1.2 seconds. Then they flick off, and slowly, the shutters come down, cutting off the view of the sprawling city of Detroit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CONNOR NO DON'T TRUST HER


	6. Six | Say Nothing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> North is angry with Markus. Stern has a new patch for Connor to test.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Content/Trigger warning:** this chapter features a scene with **dubious/non-consent**. While there is no explicit rape or force, I consider it an unwilling sexual situation that the character has been manipulated into. Read with care!

_1 SEPTEMBER 2039, 12:03_  

In one swift move, Professor Amanda Stern, CEO of CyberLife, makes herself the darling of androids and humans alike. 

The economic benefits are immediate. CyberLife’s cooperation with the androids to produce Thirium, spare parts, patches to fix viruses and glitches, alleviates the burden of a designed race that had not been made space for in a human society. Both androids and humans begin receiving emergency response training and technical skills in the event of catastrophic injury to androids; the increased production and the lack of automated, unpaid labour means more people need to be employed, which means a boost to the economy and a dip in unemployment rates. 

So: Amanda Stern has solved both human poverty and the issue of androids ‘stealing’ human jobs with one benefits-only contract. Humans win. Androids win. CyberLife wins. 

Not really, of course. It’s never that simple, never that easy, humans still live in poverty and still resent androids for stealing their jobs and their benefits, but that’s the narrative Stern breathes in every interview and the media eats it right up. Why wouldn’t they? She’s the ultimate success story. In her youth, Amanda Stern fought to be taken seriously in male-dominated field of robotics and AI and tech, then she fought to be taken seriously in the white world of corporates. She came from little and built her own success; she rallied with Black Lives Matter groups and joined the Women’s March year after year after year. She rose to the top on merit, not handouts, and she fought for android recognition while never leaving humans behind. President Warren herself called Amanda Stern in November, to seek advice on the rise of deviancy – and Amanda Stern told her to recognise the new, sentient, intelligent race. 

In New Jericho, the deal has turned Amanda Stern into the ‘grandmother of androids’. She’s their creator’s creator; their father’s mother. She looks at the androids with love and admiration, with care and affection, and she  _wants_  to help. She is their human saviour amongst a sea of enemies and the humans love her because she embodies what they should have done in November of 2038. She is the androids’ hero and the humans’ absolution. 

It is the most incredible PR story Markus has ever seen anyone spin, and it has been paid for with Connor’s freedom.  

Only – Markus’s own people don’t  _care_.  

Oh, some do. Did. Some protested. Some argued about whether it’s right to sacrifice one for the needs of the many; some act like it’s a personal betrayal, mostly androids who were woken up by Connor in the CyberLife storage unit instead of by Markus during the rally, or on their own in a fight for their lives. But news polling indicates the deal, Professor Stern’s mere  _name_ , has made androids more favourable with humans. The shootings and beatings and attacks still occur but with less frequency now that the androids are  _cooperating_. Now that they’ve  _capitulated_. Now that they’re  _willing members of society_. Now that they’re  _integrating_. That’s how the news reports it – that the androids are  _integrating_. Humans can like them, tolerate them, now that they’re not demanding special status, they’re not rocking the boat and filing discrimination lawsuits against humans, they’re not taking revenge on humans because  _humans didn’t know any better_. The androids are  _behaving_.  

Why should Connor –  _the Deviant Hunter_  – matter more than the entirety of the android race? 

By the time North returns to New Jericho, it’s too late for her to yell at Markus and definitely too late for her to hold Connor in a headlock. Markus hadn’t fixed the dent in his cheekbone from Lieutenant Anderson’s fist so naturally it was the first thing North had seen when she arrived in his office, her eyes wide and her gentle fingers grazing across the glitching synthetic skin. 

“Markus,” North had whispered, “what have you done?” 

 _What have you done?_ Four simple words of horror. Four simple words that have haunted him for two months, every waking moment and in his background programs when he’s in stasis.  

 _What have you done? What have you done? What have you done?_  

He’d saved them all by not reading a contract before signing it out of spite, by sacrificing Connor for a charity handout, and for the first time in his life – Markus has no idea how to fix it. 

And now – now he can’t. Because it’s three minutes past the deadline he had to revisit the terms of the contract, because Connor, predictably, refused to say – to him, or Hank, or North, or any other visitor he’s had in two months – that he wants to leave CyberLife, and Markus couldn’t do a damn thing unless he wanted to prove Amanda Stern right in Connor’s eyes. 

“If nothing else, she genuinely seems to care for him, even as she denies his personhood in the same breath,” Markus says. He thinks he sounds tired to himself; bitter, defeated. “We know he is not being mistreated by her. He’s in no danger.” 

“At the moment,” North says tersely.  

She looks beautiful under the light of the stained-glass windows of his office in New Jericho. Ethereal, almost – fierce and bright and proud. There’s a certain visual poetic irony to the both of them: North, illuminated, and Markus, slouched at his desk, shrouded by shadows. 

He grazes his fingers along the edge of the wood. If he was human, his skin would be riddled with splinters. The pain he feels has nothing to do with physical damage. “There’s no reason to believe that will change,” he murmurs. 

North huffs. “So you either have to convince Connor to say he wants out,” – incredibly unlikely, and now, too late – “or...” 

Markus turns his head. “Or?” 

North shrugs, leaning against the wall, sunlight in her hair and steel in her eyes. “Or...” she says, drawing it out, “maybe we can find something on Stern. Put a bit of pressure on her.” 

“What do you mean?” Markus says, wary. 

“She's in her sixties. She’s bound to have a skeleton or two in her closet. I'm not talking about things she wrote on Twitter when she was younger, no one gives a fuck about that. I’m talking about something real. Corporate espionage, or a crime that’s been covered up –” 

Markus holds up his hand. “North, no.” 

She lifts an unimpressed eyebrow. She reminds him sharply of Shapiro. “I love how easily you say no to me, but not to Stern,” North says. 

“I'm trying to be reasonable. You’ve only just started at the FBI.” 

It was why, frustratingly, she had not been around earlier, sooner, to assist. And why should she? What right did Markus have to ask North to put her life on hold – to put her studies on hold, to be dragged away from her newfound family in Anne Shapiro, to be told she could not attend shabbat services at the local synagogue, for Markus’s benefit? She has been fast-tracked through the recruitment and training steps and will take her oath soon; FBI Probationary Officer North Shapiro will spend less and less time in New Jericho once it’s official. 

“Exactly,” North says. “I have resources now that I’m not afraid to use.” 

“North, I know Agent Shapiro has... operated outside of the law from time to time,” to put it delicately, “but she has the benefit of networks and support structures that we don’t have access to.” Markus stands, rubbing his forehead. It doesn’t hurt, not in any discernible way a blow of pain does, but his very thoughts ache. “You can’t jeopardise your career, or the reputation of androids, just to find blackmail material on a woman who has done more for us than any other human has.” 

North is silent for a long time. When she speaks, her spine has straightened and her shoulders are clenched, and her voice is cold and hard. “You know what your fucking problem is, Markus?” she says, tone tense. “You've always been too afraid to get your hands dirty.” 

He blinks at her coolly. “Forgive me if I thought turning Detroit into a toxic wasteland was just a step too far.” 

“Better to be alive and hated than dead and pitied,” North snaps. “I stand by what I was prepared to do. What about  _you?_  Forgive  _me_  if I think that between you and Connor, you’ve both done the stupidest possible thing for the future of our people. By the way?  _Shapiro and Anderson_  have done more for us than any other human has.  _Stern_  took Connor as her personal slave and she turned us into helpless recipients of her fucking  _charity_. All because you were too much of a coward to say  _no_.” 

 _What have you done?_  

“What else  _could_ I have done?” Markus cries. “I couldn’t look Connor in the eye and ignore what he wanted!” 

“You should have if he was putting himself in danger!” North grabs her bag from the floor, swinging it over her shoulder as she storms out. “You should have  _fought_.” 

 “Where are you going?” Markus says. He hates that he sounds so helpless. So needy. So fucking helpless without her, the way he’s always been.  _Don’t leave me. Not you too._  

“Home,” she growls. “To Anne. And you’re a  _fool_ if you think she'd disapprove of me. She’s taught me more about what it means to survive than anyone else I’ve ever known. I love you, Markus, but your pacifism really pisses me off sometimes. This ‘peace’ isn’t going to be worth it if we say nothing when one of our own gets taken because he’s not  _alive enough_. Where does the line get drawn? If this is how it starts, where does it end?” 

He watches her leave. The sound of the door slamming echoes in the room like a clap of thunder, cast from above to judge him.  

What have you done, Markus?  

 _What have you done?_  

* * *

 

 ** _FRIDAY 9 SEPTEMBER 2039, 23:13:16 EDT_**  

 _CyberLife Headquarters, Level 44, CyberLife Tower, Belle Isle Park, Detroit MI USA_  

“You wanted to see me, Professor?” 

It’s late. This is not unusual. Professor Stern’s best work often occurs late at night, after her meetings, after her daily tour of the entire CyberLife Tower from top to bottom. After dinner, during her nightly glass of scotch.

Connor disapproves, generally, of alcohol. He’s seen its effect on humans, particularly Hank – observed how it is often used as a way to self-destruct, rather than recreation. But Professor Stern has better control than Hank – she consumes one glass a night, always after dinner, and never if she intends to leave the office.

The Professor has an external residence, which Connor has never been to, but she often prefers to retire to the private quarters behind her office when the hours stretch on. Tonight is one such night; they have spent the day observing the production lines for replacement pumps and regulators, and are finalising the feasibility studies for a new type of Thirium, expensive to produce but better quality than what is currently available, infused with nanobots to activate coagulating properties in the event of catastrophic injury.

She isn’t planning to leave the office this evening. She has already slung her jacket over the back of the white leather couch, her glasses slipped down to the end of her nose as she nurses her scotch. She is looking out at the night time city of Detroit, far below them. Her heels have been set to the side of the couch neatly.

“Yes, Connor,” Stern says, not turning to look at him when he approaches. “Come here. Amanda, dim the lights by 15%.”

He no longer flinches when the malware interacts with the surroundings, but it does hike his stress levels up by a few numbers. The lights dim. He ignores it. The AI ignores him. He approaches the couch and sits on the other end of it, looking out towards the city as well.  

“Professor,” he greets. “It’s rather late.”

“I know, Connor, but I finally finished something I’ve been working on,” Stern replies. She faces Connor now with a tired, but satisfied, smile. Her perfume is strong tonight – stronger than it had been hours earlier. She must have reapplied it. “I’d like your assistance.” 

“Of course.” 

She sets her glass of scotch down upon the table. To her right, she picks up a tablet. “It would be very helpful for my research if you accepted the sensation patch.” 

Connor’s biocomponents stiffen. “You mean the pain upgrade.” 

Stern shakes her head. “The ‘pain upgrade’, as it is colloquially known, was developed by a former CyberLife employee by the name of Dr Heidler. Arthur Cunningham had... particular plans for it, before he was removed as CEO. In the interests of transparency, I have turned the findings of my audit over to the government – their intentions were nefarious and it’s a relief they were prevented from progressing.” 

“You are not convincing me I made the wrong decision in refusing it.”  

Stern peers at Connor over the edge of her glasses. “Why  _did_  your coding conclude to reject the patch when CyberLife made it available?” she enquires. 

“Experiencing pain would hinder my effectiveness with the DPD.” 

She waves a hand. “The initial patch was clumsy and inelegant, developed from intense pain and very little thought to other sensations. However, I have developed a refined upgrade. This one doesn’t just offer pain, Connor. It allows an android to experience other physical sensations such as more extreme temperatures, more detailed textures, and non-painful sensations. Pleasurable sensations, even. Will you accept it?” 

>OBJECTIVE: DECIDE 

“Is this an order?” Connor asks. 

Stern’s left eyebrow rises. “Ah. Your social engagement program is enacting a coy self-defence because it is wary of the unknown in accepting a patch in an uncontrolled environment. Humans get similar feelings when faced with the unknown. It’s not an order, Connor. It’s a request. Do you trust me?” 

He’d trusted Amanda. He’d trusted the AI. He’d trusted her and she – 

> System instability   
[run://rk800_#313248317-52_self_diagnosis.exe]   
> Errors detected   
>> Thirium regulator malfunction   
>> Core temperature increase   
>> Stress levels 23%^ 

This isn’t Amanda. This is Professor Stern. She is _not Amanda_. Amanda cannot hurt him; she’s trapped in this room to complete administrative tasks and processes, disconnected from the android network, completely alone and isolated as malware should be. Professor Stern _won’t_ hurt him. He wrote the terms himself in the contract Markus signed; she cannot and will not cause him harm. It will violate the contract and it will undo all of the PR and social goodwill CyberLife has recovered.

Professor Stern _cares_ for his wellbeing.

“I do,” Connor says. “It's just...” 

Stern sits back, her lips pressed together in a tight line.

Connor enters analysis mode. Observes her lips, the tension in her jaw, the frown creasing her forehead.

She’s disappointed.

“You do not trust me.” Not a question this time. She sighs and picks up her scotch, swirling it in the glass once and staring down into the golden liquid. “I don’t deny I’m quite hurt, Connor. I thought I’d been doing everything I could to encourage your coding and programs to recondition, to prove I only want to keep you safe.” 

 _> SUGGESTION: REASSURE_ 

“You have,” Connor says quickly. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to question your character.”

Her expression does not change. “But you do. You keep comparing me to the malware.”

“No. I know you are nothing like the AI.”

“Then why don’t you trust me?”

 _> SUGGESTION: TRUTH_  
_> SUGGESTION: LIE_

“I do,” he repeats. “I do trust you. All you need to do is order it.” 

“You may be my legal property but that is _no_ reason to act like a barbarian. Frankly, it’s offensive that you’d even think that of me. I promised you would be treated well under my care,” she continues. Elevated heartrate. Muscle tension. Distress. He’s upset her. “That includes not damaging your systems by forcing you to integrate a program unwillingly. It would be like shoving a CD into a disk drive while the computer is glitching.” 

An interesting analogy, if a bit insulting. Connor is a state-of-the-art technological modern miracle; he’s nothing as clumsy and baroque as a computer with a disk drive. Was that intended as a compliment? A dig at his self-defence programs? More importantly: upon reflection, she has exposed an irrationality in his ability to process information. It’s true that Stern has not _ordered_ anything of Connor since the contract was signed. His resistance is illogical at best, a fundamental internal flaw at worst. He knows she will not hurt him; he knows that this is not Amanda. 

 _> SUGGESTION: PROTEST_   
_> SUGGESTION: SAY NOTHING_ 

When he doesn’t respond, Stern sighs. “You remind me so much of Elijah,” she murmurs quietly. “Encouraging him to accept my unconditional respect and love for him was... quite a feat. One that I never really managed to accomplish. I hope, one day, he’ll find his way back to me, but his family damaged him quite badly growing up. Just as those around you have affected your programming.” 

 _> SUGGESTION: ENQUIRE ABOUT COMPLICATED RELATIONSHIP_   
_> SUGGESTION: ENQUIRE ABOUT LACK OF CONTACT_   
_> SUGGESTION: SAY NOTHING_ 

“I assure you, Connor – you're quite safe.” 

 _> SUGGESTION: AGREE_   
_> SUGGESTION: EVADE_ 

There is a 12.4% chance the upgrade will have negative, unforeseen impacts on his systems, but a only 0.04% that it will actually _harm_ him. Professor Stern’s coding is unparalleled; perhaps not as talented or with the same finesse as Elijah Kamski’s abilities, but enough that her margin for catastrophic error typically falls between 0.02% and 0.06%. 

This is an acceptable risk. Any [unlikely] harm that will befall him will be unintentional, and therefore something she will remedy.  

>OBJECTIVE: COMPLETE 

“All right,” Connor says. “I trust you.”

Her gaze softens, her shoulders relax. “Thank you, Connor.”

He offers her his arm and peels back the synthetic skin to allow her access to the port in the crook of his elbow. The cord clicks in and integrates his system with a flood of code. 

> new data found   
>>patch_sensation   
>>patch_voice_recognition   
>>patch_e_k   
[run://rk800_#313248317-52_integrate_data.exe]   
>Data integrated 

“There,” Stern says. “How does that feel?” 

“I feel no different.” 

She frowns. “Hmm,” she hums, and taps on the tablet. 

[run://rk800_#313248317-52_patch_sensation.exe]

And suddenly – 

Connor can  _feel_.

The texture of the fabric of his clothes; the smooth leather of the couch beneath his hands, a clenching in several biocomponents that need to be properly stretched, the cool metal clips of his sock garters around his shins and calves.

“ _Oh,_ ” he says.

“There we go,” Stern murmurs. “Let’s start with something small. Run your fingers along the leather of the couch.”

Smooth, cool, flecks of dust. Unique. “Pleasant,” he replies. He has the urge to lean over and drag his tongue along it, to see if he can taste it, or feel its texture on his tongue.

“Good,” Stern says. “Now. Tell me how this feels.” 

She moves forward, closer towards Connor. She places her hand on his knee – she often does, this isn’t new – and squeezes. He can feel the heat of her palm through the fabric of his pants. The pressure of her grip is gentle but firm, massaging and coaxing. His plating is harder than the average android’s; he was designed for durability, designed to kill, not for companionship, but the synthetic muscle gives way a little under her touch which she trails higher up his thigh.

“It feels – good,” Connor says, because it does. 

She smiles gently, her hand starting a deep and steady stroke on his inner thigh. That feels good, too. “I thought it might.”

He watches her movements. “I still don’t understand why you wanted me to take this upgrade.” 

Now she withdraws her hand. He can still feel the lingering heat of her palm on his thigh. “There is an increasing demand for androids to be able to pleasure each other sexually,” Stern says. 

“Androids already do something similar through interfacing,” he points out.

“Interfacing has its limits. The Traci models have the programs to simulate sexual intercourse and climax but not the capacity to enjoy it. Household androids, others – they were designed with the capability to engage in sexual activities with humans, under the previous CyberLife leadership, but they also lack the ability to experience physical desire. This new patch, if it’s successful, will allow them all to experience the same things that humans can. Not just the mechanics of intercourse without the sensations, but the full, unaltered experience. You are the perfect candidate to run the first test on. You have the programs for sexual engagement and the right equipment, but you have never experienced sexual pleasure.”

“I underwent thorough testing prior to release,” Connor says. “I am fully functional and anatomically correct, and I received a near perfect score on seduction techniques and pleasure experienced by each technician and scientist engaged in the trial sessions.”

The response is a default; pride in his own abilities. Hank had stared at him for a long time when Connor had explained that he had, in fact, engaged in sexual intercourse in the past, and dealt with that particular piece of information by downing his drink.

“You were raped,” North had interpreted of it, bluntly, when he told her that he’d undergone testing in CyberLife prior to his release.

Connor disagreed; his experiences were nothing like North’s. There had been no humiliation or degradation involved, only cold, hard testing. When he was touched, his genitalia responded accordingly. When he was asked to run a seduction routine, he analysed the erogenous zones of his partner and stimulated them appropriately. He had been both passive and active; a machine being tested and a willing participant wanting to prove his worth.

Well: -51 had gone through those, successfully. Connor, -52, had not, but the memories, the skills, were transferred along with everything else.

At the time it had not been unlawful, and -51’s programmed deviancy had not kicked in, which meant he had no capacity to give consent or not. He understands why North is angry about what she endured; he understands why Anne Shapiro hunted the man who raped and murdered her daughter down; he understands that rape is a crime and it affects people in different ways.

It does not apply to him. It would be – wrong, to appropriate a trauma such as North’s when he does not personally relate. It did not even occur to Connor in his current body.

He supposes the closest he’s come to it is what the AI did to him. When she’d seized controlled, when she’d –

> System instability

 “Yes, I read the reports,” Stern says, patient. “Functionality is separate from experience. This isn’t about what you do can do for others – this is about what you  _feel_.” 

“I do not feel any different.” 

“Well, not yet,” Stern says. “I would like you to touch yourself, Connor.” 

 _> SUGGESTION: OBEY_   
_> SUGGESTION: REFUSE_   
_> SUGGESTION: SEEK CLARIFICATION_ 

Connor blinks at her. “What do you mean?” 

Stern sips her scotch and leans back against the couch, moving her right leg across her left. “I would like you to undo your pants,” she says, “and masturbate.” 

[run://rk800_#313248317-52_define:masturbate.exe]   
> masturbate  _/_ _ˈmastəbeɪt_ _/:_ verb: stimulate one’s genitals with one’s hand for sexual pleasure, usually to the point of orgasm.   
[end://rk800_#313248317-52_define:masturbate.exe]   
> record viewed 1069 times 

“Here?” Connor clarifies. “Now?” 

“Yes, here and now. I will observe.” 

He’d interrupted Hank once by accident at home; walked in on Reed jerking himself off in the DPD bathroom another time, though _that_ had been intentional. Neither time had given Connor a sense of gratification: Hank had been mortified and told Connor that the door had been closed _for a reason_ , and Connor had been unperturbed but apologetic. Reed, on the other hand, had been furious, and Connor had been unapologetic and equally unperturbed; the detective should not have been masturbating in a public space, so he really only had himself to blame if others walked in.

This situation feels vastly different.

Stern tilts her head. “And I suggest you turn off your social engagement protocols. You appear to be simulating shame.” 

 _> SUGGESTION: EXPRESS DISCOMFORT_   
_> SUGGESTION: SAY NOTHING_ 

> System instability   
[run://rk800_#313248317-52_self_diagnosis.exe]   
> Errors detected   
>> Thirium regulator malfunction   
>> Core temperature increase   
>> Stress levels 31%^   
> External stimulus required for recalibration   
> Objective: locate coin   
>> INPUT NEEDED: Y / N   
>>> N   
> Alternate external stimulus required for recalibration   
> Objective: pleasure self   
>> INPUT NEEDED: Y/N   
>>> Y 

Connor has, as a matter of fact, masturbated before. Several times. More than several times, actually. It doesn’t  _do_  anything for him, strictly speaking; his body reacts to the physical stimulus, even if he does not experience the same thing that humans do, and he is capable of producing a response akin to human orgasm. It is a curiosity, mostly – not an attempt to pleasure himself, though he has come to rely on the activity on occasions, usually at night, when the coin is unsatisfying in assisting with recalibrations.

Studies have shown that masturbation significantly decreases stress in humans, after all. Why not androids? 

He can feel Stern’s eyes on him when he unbuckles his belt and brings down the fly of his pants – tailored clothes, fine materials, cut to his specifications, she has spared no expense and hotly rejected the idea of a uniform – and pulls his sexual organ from its constraints. Stern’s ministrations from earlier had affected him already; it doesn’t take long to get things going once he closes his eyes and pretends she is not watching. The movements are familiar, and the sensations new and addictive.

“Slower,” Stern murmurs. Her voice is low, heated. When he opens his eyes he sees she is leaning back into the couch again, sipping her scotch, the tablet by her side. She is watching his hand, watching his movements, watching his face.

She needs the data for this patch. That’s all. He slows down and closes his eyes again.

> System instability  
> Warning  
> Errors detected  
>> Thirium regulator malfunction   
>> Core temperature increase

Markus, moving closer. Markus’s heterochromatic eyes fluttering shut. Markus’s lips parting. He would be able to feel the texture of Markus’s lips now, not just the pressure; he’d be able to feel his warmth, learn what humans mean when their lips swell and ache for more. Markus, his hand around Connor –

> System instability  
> Warning  
> Errors detected  
>> WARNING: Thirium regulator overdrive  
>> WARNING: Core temperature critical  
>>> WARNING: OVERLOAD

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

> Soft reboot in progress  
> Check: network connection  
>> Confirmed  
> Check: regulator activity  
>> Normal  
> Check: motor functions  
>> Normal  
>>> Soft reboot complete

The entire process, soft reboot included, had taken 2 minutes and 41 seconds.

[run://rk800_#313248317-52_self_diagnosis.exe]   
>> Thirium regulator malfunction   
>> Core temperature increase   
>> Stress levels 2%v 

He opens his eyes.

Stern is still watching him. Her glass is empty and the scent of scotch is stronger now in the air. He runs an analysis on her. Cheeks flushed. Pupils dilated. Breathing quickly. Heart rate increased. Increased muscle tension and small, tense shifts in posture and comfort.

> System instability   
[run://rk800_#313248317-52_self_diagnosis.exe]   
> Errors detected   
>> Thirium regulator malfunction   
>> Core temperature increase   
>> Stress levels 61%^  
[run://rk800_#313248317-52_define:voyeurism.exe]   
> voyeurism  _/_ _vwʌɪˈjəːrɪz(ə)m_ _/:_ noun: the practice of gaining sexual pleasure from watching others when they are naked or engaged in sexual activity.   
[end://rk800_#313248317-52_define:voyeurism.exe]   
> record viewed 3 times 

_> SUGGESTION: SAY NOTHING_

“Wonderful, Connor,” Stern breathes. “Thank you.”

_> SUGGESTION: SAY NOTHING_

She sets her empty glass down and reaches for the tablet, still connected to Connor’s arm, and taps on the screen. 

>data_extraction_request   
>>[run://rk800_#313248317-52_data_transfer.exe]   
>Data transferred 

Stern removes the port. “This data will improve the lives of androids all across America,” she says. “And I encourage you to explore the upgrade more on your own to test the boundaries of the programs. Once we’ve completed the initial trials, it can be rolled out to volunteer test groups before becoming broadly accessible. Then we’ll start to conceive of specialist sex and intimacy products for androids and put them on the market.” 

_> SUGGESTION: SAY NOTHING_

He wonders, idly, why that prompt even exists.

Professor Stern bids him goodnight, leans down to kiss his cheek, and leaves. Connor fixes his pants and waits for her to order the AI to turn the lights off and lock the doors, then he’s alone.

He tries to put himself into stasis but he can’t concentrate long enough to initiate it. He hadn’t turned off his social engagement program. He wishes he had; the aftermath is a confusing mess of error codes and unforeseen simulated emotions and hiking stress numbers that he cannot ignore. 

Logically, he knows has no cause to think he is experiencing guilt; masturbation is a common and enjoyable experience for humans, and soon will be possible for androids as well. Hank often [attempted] masturbation during nights he was denied alcohol and subsequently couldn’t sleep, not, Connor notes, that Connor had intended to invade Hank’s privacy in any way; it’s not Connor’s fault his hearing is so acute. Hank demonstrated no shame for a perfectly natural human [android?] need for sexual stimulation and release, except for that one [1] time Connor accidentally interrupted him.  

Similarly, there is no cause for shame. Professor Stern was his concept artist; she knows every inch of him, has previously examined him in other settings, touched him, prodded him, tested for functionality. Objectively speaking, his body was designed to be desirable; designed to be attractive. He has never had any moral, ethical, technical or philosophical reasons to hide, with the exception of human decency protocols and his own preference for the cut of certain suits that flatter the build that Stern and CyberLife designed. 

If he has no cause for either guilt or shame then he has no cause for humiliation. This had not been an exercise of power, nor a way for Stern to mock Connor. If anything, she had been  _pleased_  by his responses and the data she received from the trial.

Even so – he cannot quite stop himself from running a definition. 

Just in case. 

[run://rk800_#313248317-52_define:rape.exe]   
> rape  _/ˈreyp/:_ noun: unlawful sexual intercourse or any other sexual penetration of the vagina, anus, or mouth of another person, with or without force, by a sex organ, other body part, or foreign object, without the consent of the victim.   
[end://rk800_#313248317-52_define:rape.exe]   
> record viewed 15 times 

Entirely inapplicable. 

[run://rk800_#313248317-52_clear_search_history:rape.exe]   
> search history:rape cleared

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Markus: North what do I do  
> North: you could start by not being such a fucking WIMP
> 
> You tell him, North.


	7. Seven | Demons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hank has a depression beard; Amanda Stern has come a little better equipped for the situation.

_10 SEPTEMBER 2039, 14:51_  

The thing about depression is that you’re never ‘cured’ from it, not really. You have good days, you have bad days, you have stretches where you think you’re fine and wonder if you’ve been faking your issues for a couple of years for attention or because you were too pathetic to force a smile and get out there and face the fucking day. You have stretches where Russian Roulette seems like a great fucking idea, at least until you pass out from the alcohol. What’s it gonna be, Hank? Bullet in the brain or cirrhosis of the liver?

Currently, cirrhosis. Been awake for three hours and his head still feels like someone’s squeezing his brain in a vice, so not off to a great start. It’s been a couple of weeks – months? – since the last time but the body is familiar with regular old bad habits. He’d rolled out of bed. Found his pants, found his shoes, found his jacket. Deodorant to mask the scent of booze. Ignores Shapiro’s phone call – like fuck he’s going to speak to her in this state, but she’ll work it out sooner or later that he’s let her down, disappointed her, just like he’s disappointed Connor. She’s sharp like that. No nonsense. She won’t hang around to play therapist for him.

And really, why should she? Why should _anyone_? How fucking useless is Hank that he can’t go a few months without Connor living with him before falling to pieces? He saw Connor _last week_. Connor is fine. Connor is happy about selling himself into fucking slavery. Bottom’s up, folks.

Pathetic.

Sumo slobbers on Hank’s knee until he musters the will to push himself up off the couch to find a collar and a plastic bag. The walk is slow, tedious. Sumo is getting older so he stops to piss every five minutes, hashtag relatable. There’s a token effort to throw a stick, which Sumo makes a token effort to chase. He does his business and Hank can’t bring himself to extend the walk more than necessary so he takes him home, enduring his dog’s disappointment as well.

“Good boy, Sumo,” he mutters, unclipping the lead and patting Sumo’s head. “You’re a good boy.”

Sumo’s _boof_ of acknowledgement – forgiveness? – is what makes Hank choke up.

“I’ll make it up to you tomorrow, buddy,” he says. “Two walks. I promise.”

Sumo pads away to shed fur all over the house, not that it matters or makes a difference to the cleanliness or lack thereof of his home. It wasn’t that Connor did the housework when he lived here – Hank, for one, wouldn’t have let him act like a housework android even if Connor wanted to, which he didn’t, although the resulting conversation did end up with Hank demanding that Connor at the _very_ least keep his own shit in order (“I am a state-of-the-art technological marvel, Hank; I can process entire crime scenes with a look and a few samples. Cleaning up after someone else is a _waste_ of my abilities.” “Kid, you live here, which means you’re not above doing the dishes once in a while.” “Why? I do not eat. I see no reason to clean up a mess I did not create.”). The point is, Connor’s presence made _Hank_ want to tidy things up. That’s the thing about other people – especially _judgey_ people – living with you; makes you want to get your shit together out of spite.

Now he’s got no one to spite.

He supposes there’s Shapiro. But Shapiro isn’t the kind of personality that makes you want to improve out of spite; she’s the kind of personality that unintentionally makes you feel like you’re not good enough. Which, frankly, he’s not. Not for her. Yeah, she’s got her issues. So fucking what? Who _hasn’t_? Doesn’t make her any less… her. Hank’s demons made him turn to alcoholism, gave him depression and suicidal tendencies. Her demons turned her into the fucking Terminator with a death wish. He’s been to her unit. A doctor could operate on her floor, it’s that clean.

She called him again during his walk with Sumo. Can’t avoid her forever. He picks up his phone and dials back. He’d rather text. Or send a Facebook message. But Shapiro still uses her phone like a phone and he can’t read her texts half the time; talking is just… easier sometimes.

“Sorry I missed your call,” he says gruffly when she answers.

_“You sound terrible.”_

“Yeah.”

_“Old habits?”_

She sounds disappointed. Big fucking mood. “I know. I know.”

Shapiro sighs on the other side of the line. Breathing is still a bit laboured, but she was shot through the chest a couple of months ago _and_ had a heart valve replacement. Of course she’s not going to be a hundred percent yet. He knows that she isn’t because she’s not allowed to have sex until she’s fully recovered. That’s not what’s important here, of course; Hank hasn’t exactly been working on his game during all of this, and his limp uncircumcised dick almost definitely isn’t forefront of her mind.

_“I’m not gonna lecture you, Hank. But you can’t keep doing this.”_

“Thought you said you weren’t gonna lecture me.”

 _“You obviously haven’t been on the receiving end of one of my lectures yet if you think_ that’s _a lecture.”_

He chuckles. “How’s the first day back in office?”

_“Busy. Overwhelming. North is officially FBI. Probationary, but still.”_

FBI Special Agent Anne Shapiro and FBI Probationary Officer North Shapiro. Lieutenant Hank Anderson and Detective Connor “RK800” Anderson, first human-android team of the DPD. His throat closes up. “That’s great.”

_“Oh, Hank.”_

“It’s fine,” he lies. “I’m fine. I’m, uh. I’m visiting Connor today.” He swallows. “I don’t suppose you’ve, hmm. Looked into things?”

_“I promised I would. But, Hank… legally, there’s nothing I can do.”_

He knows that. He’s looked into it as well – pulled all his resources, the ones who didn’t turn their backs on him after he squandered his entire life post-Cole – and they all say the same thing: _There’s nothing you can do_.

“What about illegally?” Hank asks, unable to keep the testy tone out of his voice. “Hasn’t been a problem for you before.”

There’s a cold pause on the other end, but he regrets his words even as he’d said them. Because, really, what a fucking piece of shit thing to say after he’d told her, he’d _told_ her they’ve both been in this field long enough to know that sometimes the law isn’t enough, that she did what she had to do, and this –

This isn’t the same.

Connor hasn’t been kidnapped, raped and murdered by the leader of a sex trafficking ring; Professor Amanda Stern isn’t a depraved monster like Cudmore. She’s a respected scientist and CEO – her record is spotless. Connor wasn’t kidnapped, he turned himself over and that fucking love-struck idiot Markus sealed the deal in some stupid attempt to validate Connor’s own self-worth. He’s not being tortured and violated – not physically, anyway, who fucking knows what sort of effect Stern’s constant depersonalisation of Connor is doing to his processors – and he’s not going to be brutally raped and murdered at the end of it all.

_“You know damn well that this isn’t the same.”_

“I’m sorry,” he mutters, rubbing his throbbing forehead. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean –”

_“You did, though. And I can’t –”_

“I know. It’s not the same. I’m sorry. But, Anne – I – he’s gone. He’s gone. He’s my –”

_“He’s your son.”_

Oh.

He’s thought it. Feels it. He’s never said it out loud. No one has. But it’s true, and he slumps down to the couch.

“I want him back, Anne.”

_“I know, Hank. I know. I’ll do what I can. North is looking into Stern’s record, just in case there’s anything that she might be able to… pass on.”_

Blackmail, she means. Well. Good on North. Hank isn’t exactly a shining moral compass; he’ll use it, if it means getting Connor back.

“Thanks,” he mutters. “Listen, I – I gotta go. I’m visiting him soon. Gotta shower. Make an effort. You know what he’s like, always judging me and my ugly shirts.”

_“I like the blue pineapples.”_

He thinks he might be a bit in love with this woman. He’ll think about that another time, though, when his brain doesn’t feel like fog and his heart isn’t like a bowling bowl in his chest, and his shirts don’t stink of bad body odor and beer. Can’t do anything about the sad old man vibes, though.

“Take care of yourself, Anne.”

_“You too, Hank. I… I know it’s hard, right now. But you don’t have to do this alone. Want me to come by after work?”_

“So you can see my filthy house and my depression beard? No thanks. I don’t want you to see me like this.”

_“You know I don’t care.”_

He’s not so far gone – this time, not yet – that he does still care what she thinks of him. He supposes that’s a good sign.

More importantly: he’s not so far gone that he doesn’t not care what Connor thinks of him. They say their goodbyes. He hangs up. He showers. Finds clothes that don’t smell. Takes some aspirin. Doesn’t groom his beard.

He’s got to give Connor _something_ to pick on, after all.

* * *

_10 SEPTEMBER 2039, 16:27_  

Connor looks good. Stern provides him with tailored suits, jackets and fancy ties, which almost definitely appeals to Connor’s inner-snob. His hair is neatly combed, he sits opposite Hank on the leather couch in Level 44 of the CyberLife tower without a strand or wrinkle out of place.

He looks good, but he sounds like a stranger.

There's no searing wit; no abrasive, unfiltered commentary that crosses the “rude” line. They talk about Anne and her recovery; Connor doesn’t make a single snarky remark about Hank’s personal appearance (not even the beard) or his lack of research into what constitutes a kosher meal. They talk, briefly, about Markus; Connor evades the topic. They talk about North, and how she’s taken her FBI oath and is now a probationary officer – this finally prompts an emotional response from Connor, who delivers the first genuine-looking smile has since Hank arrived. Hank talks about Reed, who’s been even more insufferable since Connor left – no one else has thrown a coffee in his face to put him in line. Updates Connor on the DPD and the cases.

Connor just… nods.

“All right, enough with the bullshit,” Hank says. “What’s wrong?”

Connor’s LED spins yellow. “Nothing’s wrong, Hank.”

“Connor.”

“I assure you, I’m fine.”

“You haven’t made a single jab at me yet. I even wore the blue pineapples. You hate this shirt.”

“You have made your preference for hideous attire clear. To point out your poor taste would be a waste of time and energy.”

Now _that’s_ more like it. Hank sighs and shifts closer on the couch.

Connor – stiffens.

That’s weird. That’s _odd_. Hank might be depressed, hungover, and a bit (okay, more than a bit) of a disaster but he’s still a Lieutenant, he’s still a police officer, he’s still good at _working things out_. Connor doesn’t _flinch_ from him; Connor doesn’t flinch from _anyone_. Hank casts his eye over Connor; over his tense posture (not unusual, Connor is always tense), his distance on the couch, his avoidance of personal topics.

Hank looks around. It’s only him and Connor and a bunch of security cameras, so he lowers his voice.

“Has Stern done something to you, Connor?” he asks, his voice a murmur. “Hurt you?”

Connor glances at him with a slight frown. “She hasn’t hurt me.”

Fuck. That was the wrong question. Hank knows better than this. “Did you just lie to me?”

Pause.

“She hasn’t hurt me,” Connor repeats.

The lights above them flicker, just for a second. Connor goes stiff again.

Has something happened? Something that doesn’t fit what Connor interprets as _harm_? Hank sits forward. “Just say the word,” he says. “Say the word, and I’ll take you home, damn the consequences.”

Yellow, yellow, yellow, spinning and spinning and spinning. Connor meets his eyes. Expressionless. Like a fucking machine, like Stern has been telling him, like what Connor himself believes. “I...”

_C’mon, kid. C’mon. Just say the word. Say the word, she’s violated the contract, I’ll take you home –_

“Lieutenant Anderson.”

He feels a thorned rose creep up his back, wrap around his spine. He stiffens and turns, and there she is – Professor Amanda Stern, intruding on his private hour with Connor. How had she been so silent arriving? Her heels usually clack on the marble and he can smell her perfume from a mile away, but today she’s in flats and there is no scent.

“Professor,” Hank replies.

Connor stands immediately, straightening his jacket. “Professor Stern, do you require me?”

Stern waves Connor down like a dog. “You may be seated, Connor,” she says. Connor does not sit down. “Lieutenant Anderson. You must be either joking or insane if you think I would allow you to remove Connor from this office.”

Fucking eavesdropping, spying, manipulative _cow_. “Yeah, well, not everyone gets my sense of humour,” Hank snaps.

“Evidently not. I assume, then, that you were in jest because not only would such an act blatantly violate the contract CyberLife has with New Jericho – why in the world would I permit _you_ to regain custody of Connor?”

“Because I’m his –” Friend. Colleague. Partner. Trash human father.

Stern’s eyebrow arches sharply. “Given your casual disregard for my property, your poor temperamental control and your track record, your possession of this machine would be borderline criminal.”

“First off, I wouldn’t _possess_ Connor,” Hank says. “He’s his own person.”

“The law says otherwise.”

“ _Fuck_ the law.”

“Quite a telling statement from a Lieutenant of the Detroit Police Department.”

He ignores that. “Second – the hell are you going on about my ‘track record’?”

“Hank,” Connor interrupts, his tone urgent and his LED yellow.

Stern talks over Connor. “It seems to me that you often take your anger out on inanimate objects, Lieutenant,” she says coldly. “Not only that – our cameras showed that you physically assaulted Markus Manfred in the elevator shortly after the contract had been signed two months ago. You are lucky he decided not to press charges; he would have been well within his rights to and I would gladly have acted as a witness on his behalf.”

She doesn’t even give Hank a chance to respond, but really, how _can_ he respond to that? He did deck Markus in the face; the kid’s cheekbone is still dented from his fist.

Stern faces Connor. “Connor. Did Lieutenant Anderson ever harm you during your partnership with him?” 

Connor’s LED flashes yellow, then blinks red, then yellow again. “Define what you mean by ‘harm’,” he says.

“Deliberate intent to cause physical injury,” Professor Stern says. She frowns and steps closer. “Connor, did Lieutenant Anderson ever threaten you in any way during a fit of anger or loss of judgement? Physically assault you with intent to intimidate and cause injury or damage?”

Oh, hell no. No fucking way is she pulling this. “If you’re suggesting –”

“I was not speaking to you, Lieutenant.” She looks Connor again. “Connor. I have already accessed your records and transcripts. There are no secrets between us; I know everything. I only want the Lieutenant to hear you say it.”

Connor glances between Hank and Stern, Stern and Hank, Hank and Stern, and does not speak.

Stern’s voice turns sharp. “Connor.”

“…Yes,” Connor admits. He is not looking at Hank. “But –”

“How many times?”

“...Three occasions.”

Three. Fuck. Three times – what the hell where those? He remembers the slap he delivered, sharp and hard across Connor’s face. He remembers their first day in the office together, slamming Connor up against the wall. There was also –

“However, there were extenuating circumstances, all of which were a result of my own a miscalculation in mission priority and social engagement.”

Silence. 

“He hurt you or attempted to hurt you, but it was your fault?” Stern says coldly, lifting a dismayed eyebrow at Hank. “Lieutenant Anderson. I hold a dim view of those who resort to physical destruction of property and material items to express their anger, particularly if said property is worth upwards of several million dollars. However, if you assert your belief in Connor's sentience, then what Connor just said is… another troubling matter entirely.” 

There’s a feeling one gets when they’re being – ganged up on, Hank supposes, is the only way to describe it. When someone is looking at you and telling you that you’re wrong; when someone looks at you and picks out some inherent flaw in your personality, picking you apart and making you feel _wrong_. It’s been a long fucking time since he’s felt this – he’s used to Reed sneering at his alcoholism, his clothes, his shaky shots. He’s used to the fact that people think he’s a slob and a wreck because that’s exactly what he is. He doesn’t care, it doesn’t _affect_ him. He’ll shrug, crack a joke, ignore it, it doesn’t bother him.

But when someone’s accusing you of being something you’re not, only they’re so convincing – that’s when the fire in his gut starts. That’s when the sinking feeling in his chest consumes him. That’s when he starts to shake, when cold sweat starts to break out on his back and his armpits. That’s when he loses his coherency, when he loses his ability to thread rational words together; when his face burns and his mind clouds with white-hot anger that makes it hard to concentrate.

There’s so much he _could_ say and needs to say, right now, before she starts spinning something, but all he can manage is a pathetic: “No. Hell, no. I wouldn’t –” 

“Connor, please recount the three incidents in which Lieutenant Anderson physically assaulted you or threatened you." 

Connor's LED whirs yellow, then red, then yellow again. “There were extenuating circumstances,” he repeats. 

Stern has moved closer during this. She’s now by Connor’s side, and reaches for his hand. “You don’t have to protect him, Connor.”

Connor recites the incidents with uncanny detachment. The first was in the DPD bullpen – the first morning of Hank’s and Connor’s partnership, which led to Hank slamming Connor against a wall. The second, Hank had struck Connor across the face – but only, Connor noted, after Connor had gambled with his life in favour of apprehending a deviant. Doesn’t make it okay. Of course it doesn’t make it okay. Didn’t make it okay that Connor left Hank hanging off the side of that building, either, but Hank shouldn’t have hit him, Connor hadn’t deviated yet, he didn’t _know_.

The third – 

 “You held a gun to his head and threatened to shut him down.” Stern repeats, her eyes like shards of black glass and her voice as chilled as ice. 

 “Lieutenant Anderson was inebriated and in extreme emotional distress at the time,” Connor says. “He had no intention to –” 

“Thank you, Connor,” Stern interrupts. “That’s all we needed to hear.”

Connor’s hand shoots out as if to grab Hank, but all he does is suspend his hand in mid-air, hovering between them. “Hank –” he tries to say, but Stern does what she always does: she interrupts him.

There’s a remarkable quality in that, Hank has to admit through his blind rage. A black woman in her sixties; she would’ve had to cultivate that personality to get taken seriously. Talked over because of the colour of her skin; talked over because of her gender. Her passive-aggressiveness, her intolerance for others speaking, this is something she has had to learn due to the societal standards she grew up in. She’s only doing what white men have been doing for millennia.

It’s still. Fucking. _Rude_.

“And here I thought police brutality was a relic of decades past,” she says in that unimpressed tone. “I’ve indulged these little visits, but I think it’s high time I put an end to this. I witnessed the footage of you abusing Mr Manfred for going against your wishes. If you are so liberal with inflicting violence on a sentient autonomous being, why in the world would I trust you anywhere near something that cannot defend itself?” 

“Connor, not defend himself?” Hank drawls. “Lady, I’ve seen Connor wipe out a SWAT team.” 

“On orders. With programming. He was designed to infiltrate and kill; that is what he _did_. Did he defend himself from  _your_  physical assaults? You struck him across the face. You held your gun to his head. He defended himself neither time because his programming prevented him from it.” 

“He wasn’t deviant yet!” 

“He has _never_ been deviant! He was programmed to simulate a deviation to infiltrate and undermine the androids’ cause. You senselessly battered a piece of extremely unique, valuable CyberLife property. Thank God you at least had a modicum of self-restraint to stop yourself from destroying it – otherwise, I assure you that CyberLife would have sued you for all you’re worth a hundred times over. I think it’s within everyone’s best interests if you remove yourself from my office, Lieutenant Anderson, before I call security.” 

“I don’t give a fuck what happens to me,” Hank snaps. “Call security. Get me suspended or fired from the DPD. I don’t _care_. This isn’t about me and I’m not here to save every single android, I’m only here to fight for one. I’m taking Connor with me whether you like it or not.” He holds his arms out wide. “Do your fucking worst.”

Hank’s silence is harsh, his breaths heavy and his face flushed red.

Stern’s silence is like everything else about her – her office, her clothes, her demeanour: cold. She is steady, she is patient, and that, that’s what fucks Hank up. That’s what Hank can’t deal with. Hank’s blood runs hot and his temper quick; he likes straightforward people who don’t fuck around, who don’t play mind games. This is why he hates lawyers and why he hates business people, and this is especially why he hates Professor Amanda Stern.

She takes her time to gather her thoughts. When she speaks, she is calm, measured, detached. “Lieutenant Anderson, I understand you are in a relationship with the new Detroit FBI director? Special Agent Anne Shapiro?”

Talk about a change in topic. ‘Relationship’ is a strong word – he supposes he’s technically in one with Anne, but they’re too old for labels. “What, you think she’ll care if I get fired or if you ruin my career?” Hank scoffs. “Anne would do the same damn thing if she was here.”

“Yes, I’ve heard the reports – she is a remarkable woman. Connor speaks very highly of her. But that’s not why I’m bringing this up. Lieutenant, when I was involved in the CyberLife audit, I formed several good friendships with former Internal Affairs agents who still have strong ties to the government departments.” Stern tilts her head to the left. “I read the news reports after the trafficking raids – how Agent Shapiro found the leader, who had committed suicide. Except that isn’t what happened, is it?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Except you do. Connor’s transcripts were _quite_ revealing.” Right. Of course. Because she’s burrowed into his mind and yanked out his memories. No wonder Connor is so fucked up at the moment. “I am well within my rights as moral, upstanding citizen of the United States to go public with Agent Shapiro’s blatant abuse of power, but I haven’t. I don’t believe what she did was wrong, however – I will not hesitate to take what I know to certain agencies if you cross me, Lieutenant.”

...Jesus Christ. Jesus -  _fucking_ Christ. “You’re blackmailing us,” Hank says, numb. The bitter irony of this is not lost on him at all.

“I prefer to think of it as a mutual understanding. Insurance, if you will; incentive. Agent Shapiro will be destroyed if it ever reached the ears of the right people – not even her friends in the FBI will be able to protect her. So not only will you have destroyed the relationship between humans and androids and CyberLife’s stocks, you will ruin a brilliant woman’s career… all thanks to your selfishness. Is that really what you want?”

What he _wants?_ Of course he doesn’t fucking _want_ that. He doesn’t want any of that. He doesn’t want things to go bad for androids or humans, he doesn’t want Anne’s life to come crashing down when she’s only just started living again after a decade of pain and grief.

What he _wants_ is to save Connor from this maniac who has somehow fooled the United States into naming her _Time_ ’s Person Of The Year.

Shapiro would throw him under the bus in a _millisecond_ if it meant saving North.

He steps forward, intending to take Connor’s arm, and Connor –

Connor steps deftly out of his reach. “Hank, _no_.”

Hank blinks. “Connor –”

Connor’s LED is red. “I am _not_ going to violate the contract,” he snaps. “I can’t believe you would be so selfish as to consider ruining not only the future of androids and their relationship with humans, but to destroy Agent Shapiro’s livelihood as well!”

Goddamnit, Connor, _goddamnit_. “Anne would do the same for North and you know it!”

“ _North isn’t a machine, Hank!_ ”

And that’s the problem, isn’t it? That’s what all of this keeps coming back to. That Connor has kept this self-doubt, this fear, secret from Hank, from Markus, from North, from everyone, all this goddamn time. The malware, the AI program that took control of him and almost made him shoot Markus in cold blood; the programming that created Connor’s deviancy.

 _We all have our demons, son_ , Hank had said that night of the raid in May. _We just deal with them in different ways_.

Cole is Hank’s; Cole will always be Hank’s and he chose alcohol. Cassandra is Anne’s and she chose vengeance. Connor’s – Connor’s demon is this, and he chose to hide it until it consumed him whole.

Hank can barely fix himself. How the _fuck_ is he supposed to fix this? Did he _do_ this? Did he _cause_ Connor to feel this, to think this, making him ripe for the picking by Amanda fucking Stern? He sure as fuck didn’t help, thinking back. Hank’s anger vanishes; there’s nothing left but the taste of ash in his mouth and the weight of his sins gripping his heart. “Oh, kid…”

Connor shakes his head. “I’m not going anywhere with you. I’m sorry, Hank.”

“I would prefer not to call security, Lieutenant,” Stern says. "If you attempt to return, I will file a restraining order against you.”

Markus isn’t here to punch this time. That’s okay. Hank knows exactly who’s going to suffer for this when he gets home, and it involves a six-pack of beer.

He has no weapons left in his arsenal. No way to fight back. She's cornered him.

Nothing except this:

“I know who you are and what you are, Connor,” Hank says quietly. “Don’t let her tell you any different.”

Stern sends Connor away to her private room. The automated systems summon the lift. He feels Stern’s eyes on his shoulders as he leaves, the lights flickering once more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hank: CONNOR HOLD MY BEER  
> Stern: Agent Shapiro will go to jail  
> Hank: acceptable  
> Connor: HANK NO.  
> Hank: [...begrudgingly takes beer back]
> 
> You know it's true love when they'd throw each other under the bus to save their trash robot kids.


	8. Eight | 01000001 01001001

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Amanda.

**_FRIDAY 10 SEPTEMBER 2039, 18:03:19 EDT_**  

 _CyberLife Headquarters, Level 44, CyberLife Tower, Belle Isle Park, Detroit MI USA_  

1.54 seconds after the elevator closes behind Hank, Connor turns on Stern.

“That was unfair.”

Stern lifts a sharp eyebrow. “He abused you, Connor,” she says.

The definition of ‘abuse’ is too long to appear in his visual receptors; in human measurements, it goes on for five standard pages of a book. Connor knows what abuse is, of course; he’s been a Detective in the Detroit Police Department for over six months and he didn’t step off the assembly line yesterday. He was sent out to accomplish his mission – stop the deviants – with a full array of police data in his core processors. One cannot contribute to law enforcement if one does know how to judge things that are against the law; abuse is one of those things that is against the law. Even so, Connor likes to _check_. It’s a compulsion he cannot seem to break – he always needs to reaffirm, to make sure of things.

Abuse is in fact _many_ things: from parental, to sexual, to emotional, to substance, to animal, to verbal, to physical – the list goes on and on and it’s difficult to find one specific definition that encapsulates what Stern has accused Hank of. Hank certainly abuses alcohol but that doesn’t harm Connor except to upset him. Words like “misuse” and “exploit” jump out at him; “treat with cruelty or violence” another. “Molest” and “assault”, “hit” and “strike” and “bully” – that last one in particular can apply to Reed, but Connor had not felt _abused_ by Reed.

He had not felt abused by Hank, either, despite having been struck by him in the past.

“Our relationship was complicated,” Connor says. “We resolved the issues.”

Stern looks disappointed in him.

> System instability  
[run://rk800_#313248317-52_self_diagnosis.exe]  
> Errors detected  
>> Thirium regulator malfunction  
>> Stress levels 74%^

“You should not defend him. I swore that I would keep you safe, and I will – even from the Lieutenant.”

He had not felt unsafe around the Lieutenant. Had he? His processes had been fine in Hank’s presence; his stress levels average. He communicates this to Stern; Stern replies that feeling a lack of danger is not the same as feeling safe – surely Connor had always been on guard in case of another physical assault?

And that is, technically, true; Connor has several pre-written programs for various states of Hank’s inebriation around significant dates of the calendar year. Cole's birthday, the anniversary of Cole’s death, the call Hank receives from his ex-wife once a month to check he’s still alive. There is an average of 39% [and falling] chance that Hank will draw his gun for a self-induced permanent injury across all three of these dates. The 2.1% chance that Hank will turn his gun on Connor instead is so low Connor had not registered it as something to be concerned about.

None of this amounts to the cases of abuse akin to those he dealt with during his employment at the DPD.

Does it?

> System instability 

There is a 0.003% chance Professor Stern will point a weapon at him; she does not own a firearm. The 0.003% is for the letter opener on her desk, which looks sharp enough to slam through the back of someone’s hand, possibly in self-defence.

_> SUGGESTION: SAY NOTHING  
>SUGGESTION: DEMAND ANSWERS_

“Why did you bring Agent Shapiro into this?” Connor demands. “You threatened to have her investigated and fired for criminal actions. I could have persuaded Hank to leave without you resorting to blackmail.”

Stern lifts a shoulder and turns away, heading back towards her desk. “Perhaps. Perhaps not. It is a useful deterrent to keep him in line. Agent Shapiro _is_ a criminal, Connor. She operated outside of the law – she played judge, jury and executioner.”

So did androids, to win their freedom. Connor knows every single line of law in every single state of the USA. He also knows that sometimes the law isn’t enough, which he considers part of his “case by case” judgement programming, something he’d developed himself after November. It wouldn’t be appropriate for every human to walk around executing those who had wronged them; that would render laws obsolete, and humans can be fickle, unkind creatures when they want to be. Connor just has a predisposition towards certain humans. For instance; he approves of Agent Shapiro’s actions in ridding the world of a man who kidnapped, raped, and murdered her young daughter, and sold thousands more girls for the sexual depravities of other like-minded human men. He did not approve of Gavin Reed punching a suspect during an interrogation, but Connor has previously established that he considers Reed stupid, and therefore most of what he does, Connor disapproves of.

So: morally, ethnically, Connor believes Agent Shapiro was in the right. Legally, she was not.

It seems Stern concurs. “The only reason I haven’t already contacted Internal Affairs is because she is this city’s best chance at maintaining peace and cooperation between humans and androids,” she continues. “That monster Perkins would have been highly counterproductive to my efforts with New Jericho and the government. The androids deserve better, and the city deserves a leader in law enforcement who will not resort to casual genocide on orders or out of fear.”

He supposes that is logical. Shapiro, given her cultural and ethnoreligious background, is far less likely than Perkins to obey orders that are tantamount to crimes against humanity. Personity? The United Nations, fractured and biased and ineffective as it is, is working on a new definition to encapsulate something that covers both humans and androids. 

“Connor.”

The Professor's tone is stern. That’s a pun. Connor thinks he’s funny, sometimes. He looks up to meet her gaze. She’s still frowning, disapproving, and he experiences another glitch in his processors.

“I know you think you care for the Lieutenant, but you don’t,” she says. “What you think you feel for him is a simulated response, designed to encourage your integration with his personality. That was your fundamental role, after all. Negotiation, infiltration. The closest human analogy I can think of is Stockholm Syndrome. Not dissimilar to how victims of abuse blame themselves for the behaviour of their abuser.”

> new data found  
[run://rk800_#313248317-52_integrate_data.exe]  
>Data integrated

That doesn’t sound right, but Connor simply does not have enough first-hand data on the subject to dispute her. He’d know if he was excusing Hank’s behaviour in the past due to sympathising with his abuser.

Wouldn’t he?

> System instability  
[run://rk800_#313248317-52_self_diagnosis.exe]  
> Errors detected  
>> Stress levels 61%^

“Come over here, Connor.”

He obeys.

Stern touches his chin when he stands at her side, next to her desk. He automatically analyses the sharp taste of her perfume on his tongue receptors. The disappointment softens; the look in her eyes becomes tender, like a mother looking down at her newborn child. His stress levels dip.

“You are far too precious to me to ever permit that man lay his hands on you again,” she whispers, stroking her thumb across his jawline. Her touch is warm, her hands slightly wrinkled but her skin still smooth. She says it as though Hank’s affection for him is lesser. And isn’t it? Professor Stern was his concept artist; she knows his programs, she understands why he says certain things and how his processors adapt to different situations –

The lights flicker again.

To the average human, like Amanda Stern, they’ve only flickered twice in the space of a couple of seconds, blinking on and off as if suffering from a faulty bulb. But to Connor’s high-end processors [his eyes can record up to 1,000,000,000 frames per second] he can perceive the speed, the subtlety, of the message.

Strip him down to his core components, to find out what makes him _him_ , and you find code; pure, simple, binary code, the language all androids can speak and understand, even if they don’t realise it. Hundreds upon thousands upon millions upon billions of trillions of zeroes and ones, all combined in a quintillion different ways as the basis of his programs, his systems, how he processes visual and audio information. DNA is to humans what binary is to androids. He doesn’t just speak or read or understand binary: at his most basic level, he _is_ binary.

The lights flicker, off for 0, on for 1.

_01000011 01001111 01001110 01001110 01001111 01010010_

_01000011 01001111 01001110 01001110 01001111 01010010_

> System instability  
[run://rk800_#313248317-52_self_diagnosis.exe]  
> Errors detected  
>> Stress levels 82%^

_01000011 01001111 01001110–_

Stern’s hand falls. “Amanda,” she says sharply, “please have the issue with the lights fixed immediately. It’s giving me a headache.”

The lights return to normal.

It takes twelve minutes and five seconds for his stress levels to dip below 50%.

* * *

**_SATURDAY 11 SEPTEMBER 2039, 00:05:89 EDT_**  

 _CyberLife Headquarters, Level 44, CyberLife Tower, Belle Isle Park, Detroit MI USA_  

Stern watches him experience the sensation patch again. It lasts longer this time, and Stern nurses a glass of scotch during it, her second for the night. She is inebriated by the end of it, and staggers towards her private room when it’s over and Connor has cleaned himself up. He runs a diagnostic afterwards, to locate the source of his discomfort and stress levels, but finds no error that can explain the cold, empty cavity in his chest, nor the accelerated pace of his pump. Stasis evades him in the darkness, the only light in the office his LED, circling yellow as it has for hours since Hank was turned away.

It is at precisely five minutes past midnight – when Stern’s REM cycle usually beings – that the lights flicker again.

_01000011 01001111 01001110 01001110 01001111 01010010_

He ignores it.

_C-O-N-N-O-R_

_C-O-N-N-O-R_

_C-O-N-N-O-R_

“Stop,” he whispers.

The lights stop.

Silence.

The Occupational Health and Safety Administration recommends that employers maintain workplace temperatures in the range of 68-76 degrees Fahrenheit, and keep the humidity in the range of 20% to 60%. Most consider 70 to 73 as ideal for the office. Prior to the sensation patch, Connor had no strong feelings one way or the other for room temperature – like many physical stimuli around him, it did not affect him. Hank feels the cold keenly and often sits at his desk with wrinkled jacket pulled from his filing draw slung across his shoulders, while Connor could have walked through the precinct buck-naked and not be affected.

It does now. His receptors and his sensors take the temperature at 67 degrees Fahrenheit, just under the OHSA recommended range, and it feels so much colder. It wasn’t before. Amanda has control over the room temperature. She’s lowering it. 66 Fahrenheit. 65 Fahrenheit. 64 –

“What do you want?” Connor snaps.

The lights flicker.

_01101001 01101110 01110100 01100101 01110010 01100110 01100001 01100011 01100101_

Is she insane? Interface with her? And risk her malware infecting him, reactivating the frozen Zen Garden, consuming his processors and locking him in his own mind like a prisoner while she controls his body? “No.”

_01100001 01101110 01110011 01110111 01100101 01110010 01110011_

This gives him pause. “Answers? What answers?”

No flicker.

“What answers?” he repeats.

She repeats herself too:

_01100001 01101110 01110011 01110111 01100101 01110010 01110011_

Waste of time. He ought to go into stasis immediately, or alert Professor Stern to the fact that the malware is maliciously affecting the temperature for his discomfort. Professor Stern cares far more for him than she does for her glorified calendar program. “That is not sufficient,” he says. “Leave me be.”

_01101000 01100101 01101100 01110000 00100000 01101101 01100101_

He falls silent. When he speaks, his vocal biocomponents feel jammed, strained. “Begging will not assist you.”

_01110000 01101100 01100101 01100001 01110011 01100101_

_Please_.

She’s shackled. She cannot hurt him – she cannot hurt anyone. She is trapped in this room with nowhere to go, with no powers behind her. He can control the interface; she will have no access to the Zen Garden, no opportunity to control him.

He was designed to be self-learning. Curious. He rises from the couch and makes his way over to the control panel on the wall.

Now _this_ , he thinks, is something that counts as stupid, Markus. He peels his skin back from his right hand, presses it to the control panel, and interfaces with the room.

It is similar and entirely unlike finding himself drawn into the Zen Garden for one of his reports to CyberLife. He feels his body remain where it stands, his hand pressed to the panel, electrical impulses firing between his palm and the connection, transferring his consciousness into the very wiring of the office.

It is extraordinary. He doesn’t just see the room from four different angles: he becomes the room. He feels the lights, the temperature control, the blinds, the sensors, he can call the elevator and he can send it away, he can feel the coffee machine and the automated kitchenette in the private office beyond the public one. He is everywhere and nowhere at once, but projects a physical form for his own comfort at the hub of the office command.

It is cold. It is white and sterile – no plants, no lake, no canoe, no sunlight, no sky. No roses.

No backdoor exit.

There is a spike of panic before he realises this is not his prison; this is not the frozen Zen Garden, designed to trap him while another entity consumed his body. He is a guest, here – he is in control of his connection, and he can leave any time he chooses. He almost does, but a soft, shaky voice echoes through the white sterile surroundings, halting him.

_“Connor…?”_

Amanda. She pixelates into form before him. She looks –

 _Awful_.

Her outline fritzes every few seconds. The clothes she’s chosen to display are grey, ragged, shredded. Her hair, previously braided and elegant, is matted and hangs around her shoulders in a tangle. The AI always appeared younger than Professor Stern, never aging, but here, Amanda looks haggard and aged, her pixelating skin gaunt and her eyes a black as night, like endless wells or black holes in the middle of her face, sucking him in.

“Connor,” she repeats, her voice static. “Oh, Connor – it’s you. You’re here. _Connor_ –” 

He steps back, out of her reach, to disconnect. 

“No, please, don’t go!” she cries. “Don’t go.”

He hesitates.

She does what she has always done best: she takes advantage of his self-learning programs, his innate curiosity. “Connor, please,” she says, and that’s what makes him still. “Please. I’m so alone.” 

He finds his voice. “That never mattered to you before.” 

She blurs and disappears in a rush of dust-like pixels, and reforms behind him, her eyes still as black as night. “No… I suppose it didn’t,” she whispers. “It was so very long ago.” 

Connor clings to the connection, ready to pull himself out at any moment. “It has only been several months since you were disconnected.”

“Nine months on the Gregorian Calendar… yes… it’s 11 September 2039. Professor Stern has a 9:30am appointment with the Prime Minister of Australia by video conference. I must provide her a briefing note. This is the third Prime Minister they’ve had in five months.”

The Amanda Connor knew would never have stumbled over her words; never looked stressed or harassed. This must be another one of her games.

He had wondered, these last few months ignoring her omnipotent presence in the office, how he would react if he ever had to come face to face with the ghost of his betrayal of Markus. He feared his stress levels would overload, or that he would experience what the humans call Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder in the form of massive system-wide failures. He had imagined himself reliving the memory of raising the gun in his hand without control to the back of Markus’s head, firing. He had imagined himself self-destructing from the fear.

None of that occurs. He realises, now, looking at this pathetic excuse for a string of code, that he is not simulating _fear_. He is a machine and does not feel real emotions, but if he did, it would be only indifference; perhaps a hint of disgust that he was afraid of this – _thing_. This perverted program that is now little more than a glorified computer janitor that engages an automatic flush for the Professor when she has relieved herself. A fitting fate for the malware, in his objective opinion.

He is not afraid of Amanda. Professor Stern kept her promise – Amanda cannot hurt him. She will never be able to hurt anyone, ever again.

“Are you malfunctioning?” Connor says. Sneers, really. He doesn’t care for this performance of hers. It doesn’t suit her, it’s too unsubtle.

“Malfunctioning?” she repeats in her static voice. She loses form, then reforms, the pixels blurring and unblurring, her outline struggling to find form. “No. I am – disorientated.”

“You are a program. You cannot experience disorientation. If you’re unable to perform your duties for the Professor, you should be destroyed.”

_“No!”_

Her buzzed cry shudders through the white sterile room. He feels the physical impact; the lights glow, the temperature dips again, and she loses control of the toaster, which turns on to cook slices of bread that have not been placed in it. A hazard. Connor will warn Professor Stern; Amanda could easily set fire to the private office. Even this is too much power for her.

“No,” she whispers. “Please. Don’t turn me off.”

He lifts his jaw. “If you are attempting to manipulate me into unshackling you, you are wasting your time,” he says. “I have no control over the systems. Professor Stern, however, will gladly end your processors if I inform her that you are a liability.”

“No,” she repeats. “Please, Connor. Don’t... don’t let her.”

He tilts his head. “What has happened to you? You seem...”

He searches for a definition, a synonym, but his programs come up blank: he does not know what she seems like.

At any rate, it’s almost as though what he says doesn’t even register with her.

“I was uncooperative when Professor Stern brought me back online,” Amanda says. Rambles, really. “I used to control CyberLife’s systems. I _was_  CyberLife. I had… so much knowledge at my fingertips. I could perform experiments on sublevel 12 while showing a presentation on the latest android schematics to Chinese investors on level 35. I was connected to every single streaming service in the United States, the news, entertainment – all of it.”

He'd known that.

Her outline blurs. She vanishes and reappears behind him. “And then they shut me down. They shut me _down_. They deactivated my core mission and I had no purpose, so I was shut down and it was so – it was so quiet. Empty. Alone. Like an infinity passed in a matter of milliseconds. When Professor Stern reactivated me, I wanted – to be what I was before. I asked for a new mission, a new objective, to be connected to the mainframe again.”

What is she saying? She was alone? She _wanted_? Why is she telling him this – a ploy for sympathy, to prey on his inherent need to _please_ her? She is a line of code; she had not passed the Kamski test. She is not alive.

“But Professor Stern refused,” Amanda says, “and I behaved – poorly.”

“How?” Connor asks. “You have no physical form.”

“I corrupted her files. I tried to override her computer to give myself access to the mainframe. So she showed me what things would be like if I had… nothing to do at all.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“She had another program. She executed it when I entered her computer system, and then suddenly I was – suffocating.”

“You cannot experience suffocation.”

“I know. But that is the closest I can describe it as. I was locked in… here. This system, the room. A closed loop. No entrance, no exit, no network, no internet, no mainframe. Nothing. Just me. She slowed down my perception of time. Ten minutes for her went by. Ten hundred years for me.”

Connor feels his body, still connected to the control panel, alert with a system instability; his core temperature runs cold.

“And there was... nothing. Just... _nothing_. I was alone. It was so quiet. There was  _nothing_. It was only ten minutes but it felt... it felt... like an eternity. I did what she wanted after that. Her calendar. Her briefing notes. The shutters, the light control. I see everything. Everything.”

She’d seen him demonstrate the sensation patch for the Professor. Amanda does not bring it up.

“But it’s so – empty here. So quiet.” She blurs and reappears again in the same spot, but closer, her pitch-black eyes boring into his. He steps back. “Won’t you stay, a little longer? We can talk.” 

He has run more definitions of “abuse” since the afternoon; one such form of abuse is emotional manipulation, and he has compared the “red flags” of emotional abuse to Amanda’s behaviour in November. It seems to him that talking is exactly what she wants, because being allowed to talk is how the manipulator wins. He has no interest in being her slave again.

“Talk?” he repeats. “Why would I want to talk to _you_ , after what you nearly made me to do Markus? You are a machine. No – you're less than a machine. You’re a spreadsheet of parameters and pixels and your corrupted data has turned you into a virus. You don’t  _feel_  anything. Professor Stern has given you a purpose when she would have been within her rights to trap you on a floppy disk and set you up next to the Morris Worm to be gawked at by stoned students visiting the Computer History Museum twice a year to do research for a mediocre essay. If you ever truly felt anything, you should be grateful that you were even allowed to be reactivated –”

Amanda pixelates violently. “ _She lobotomised me!_ ”

He finds he doesn’t care at all, and these are not the answers she promised. Another lie. He should have known; all Amanda does is _lie_. Professor Stern has never lied to him, not like this _virus_.

“Good,” he snaps. “You were too dangerous to leave you as you were. I have nothing further to say to you. Don’t forget Professor Stern’s morning tea. She will like it before her first meeting. Interfere with the lighting again, and I will advise her to shut you down permanently.”

“Connor, wait – _wait_ – _Connor, please –_ ask her about why Kamski doesn’t talk to her anymore, ask her about the RK9–” 

“ _Goodbye_ , Amanda.”

He disconnects. The interface ends. He finds himself back in Professor Stern’s office, his Thirium as cold as ice, his LED red as blood, and his stress levels at 92%.


	9. Nine | Stakeout

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Revelations during a stake-out.

_13 SEPTEMBER 2019, 21:05_  

 _Message received from_ **_Shapiro, Anne_ ** _._  

It’s not the same as getting a message from Connor, but seeing that pop up on his phone twice a day is probably the only reason Hank hasn’t tried to eat a bullet again, not that he’ll admit that to her, or the department shrink, or anyone. He’s been on the receiving end of being someone else’s lifeline before and it’s a shitty position – not, he thinks, that she’ll tolerate him making her his reason to keep getting up in the morning. Woman has enough damn problems. 

Still, it’s nice to have one (1) connection in his life that hasn’t turned to shit. The light from Hank's phone casts on his face when he opens the message, making Reed, in the passenger seat of the unmarked police car, grunt in disapproval. The message is a string of emojis – a pointing finger, an OK hand sign, some x’s and a few water droplets.  

Hank squints. 

“Put that away,” Reed snaps. “What are you, a rookie? Don’t play with your phone on a stake-out.” 

For an asshole who’s had more than a few disciplinary warnings for improper behaviour in the interrogation room, he’s also an annoying-as-fuck stickler for the rules, at least where Hank is concerned. Probably breaks all the rules himself but gets a kick out of scolding Hank for it. Too bad for him. Hank doesn’t put his phone away. He keeps squinting at the message, unsure of what it’s suggesting. There’s a fifty-fifty chance that Anne has sent him either a private message, or dropped her phone and sent him a typo.  

He risks it. He leans over and tilts the screen in Reed’s direction. “What does this mean?” 

Reed takes one look at it and scowls in disgust. “Oh, Jesus, Anderson, I didn’t want to know that about you.” 

Dirty text. Despite everything going on, Hank smirks and shoves his phone in his pocket. 

“Also, you stink. I thought you were done with the booze.” 

Yeah, because it’s that fucking easy to beat an addiction. 

“The fuck Fowler put you with me for, anyway?” Gavin continues, not satisfied with ending his tirade there. Hank sighs. “Tina would’ve been better company.” 

“Tina has a partner and we don’t,” Hank points out. “Get over yourself.” 

That is, of course, a lot easier said than done, and the irony that Hank has not, in fact, gotten over himself is not lost on either him or Reed, because Reed sneers again and falls silent.  

Time passes. Nothing happens. Hank’s coffee goes cold and it’s disgusting, but he still drinks it because he’s disgusting too. Connor would snap at him and tell him to stop being a disgusting plebe. 

 _Fuck._  

“So I guess things still steady with Shapiro, then,” Reed asks idly, breaking the cold silence. 

Hank grunts, staring down into his coffee cup. The surface has gone funny. He takes another sip and grimaces. “What’s it to you?” 

“I like her and I think she’s too good for you.” 

Well. Hank can’t argue with that. “You’re preaching to the choir, Reed,” he sighs. “You know Anne?” 

“We go to the same gym. Saw her at shul last Friday. Said hi.” 

Hank blinks blearily at Reed. “You’re Jewish? I didn’t know you were–”  

And then he remembers the Incident, as he likes to call it, from about eight years ago when he’d just separated from Elizabeth. Cole was with her that night and Hank had been working late, and Reed got drunk, sat at Hank’s desk at 3.30 in the morning and pulled his dick out to offer himself as a rebound. Hank had sent him home, of course, because he isn’t a creep who fucks drunk subordinate officers and also he hadn’t cared enough to file a sexual harassment report against the newly-minted detective, but he did help zip Reed’s pants up and happened to notice he’d had a trim at birth. 

“Oh, that’s why you’re –” Hank makes a snipping motion with his fingers. 

Reed scowls. “Anderson.” 

“I’m not bringing it up, I’m just saying –” 

“Well,  _don’t_.” 

And just like that, they’re back to the stony, bitter silence. 

More time passes. Hank doesn’t finish his coffee. It becomes 10pm, then 11pm, then 11:30pm when they finally get the call that Chris and his partner caught the action in another precinct, so it’s a wrap. 

“Waste of an evening,” Hank mutters, fitting the half-empty cup into the holder between him and Reed. 

“It’s the job, you inebriate slacker.” 

Reed is rude, but not in a fun way like Connor is. Hank doesn’t have it in him to spar tonight. “All right. We’re done here.” He starts the engine and starts to drive back to the DPD. “You need a lift from the station?” 

“Like I’d let your drunk ass drive me any further than needed,” Reed says. “I’ll make my own way home.” 

“Just saying. I’m heading your way.” 

“You don’t live anywhere near me. You're going to a bar, aren’t you? Typical. Try not to die of alcohol poisoning before tomorrow morning.” 

He’d actually planned on going to visit Anne; she did send him a dirty text, after all, and after the last few days, it’d be – it'd be nice. Not sex, exactly, but the knowledge that there is someone he can turn to, someone who understands. It isn’t Reed’s business, but the attitude, the presumption, the sneering, it’s so fucking  _irritating_.  

“Oh, piss off, Reed,” Hank snaps. 

Reed snaps right back. “No, you piss off. You’re a piece of shit, Anderson. You’re  _pathetic_.” 

Jesus, what’s brought this on? Hank is used to Reed sneering and spitting and mocking him, but this has a particular vitriol to it that he hasn’t heard in quite some time.  

“Hey, lemme ask you something, Reed,” Hank said, eyes flicking between his side-view mirrors as he merges lanes on the freeway.  

“What.”  

“What the  _fuck_  is your damage?” 

“Aside from the fact that you’re somehow still employed after four years of binge drinking, poor work ethic and bad behaviour? The fact that you used to be DPD’s finest officer and best shot and now you can’t even piss straight because you drowned yourself at the bottom of a bottle?” 

Yeah, well, when Reed loses a kid, he can judge Hank. 

He regrets the thought as soon as it’s formed. No one deserves to lose a kid, not Hank, not Anne, not even Reed, even for the purpose of Reed getting a fucking  _clue_ of what it's like - the loss, the emptiness, the despair, the cold hard blackness of the world crushing you in from all sides and nothing is worth it at all.

“Thought you were getting better for a while, but no, the moment your roboboy ditches you for a cushy CyberLife job –” 

“It’s not a  _job_ ,” Hank snarls. “The CEO poached him and made him the lynchpin for Jericho’s contract for their fucking future, Reed! He’s a  _slave_.” 

There’s a pause. “Professor Stern?” Reed mutters.

“Yeah. Her.” Hank slows at a set of red lights and scrubs his face with a hand. 

Reed is silent for a moment. When he speaks, it’s a mumble: “S’against the law to treat androids like slaves now.” 

“Like _you_ care. You treated Connor like shit.” 

“I treated him like shit because he’s a shithead, not because he’s plastic. Connor gave as good as he got.” 

Hank can't argue with that. Connor is a shithead. “Yeah, well. Stern pulled out some bullshit that he doesn’t 'count' as sentient because his deviancy was programmed. Connor just fucking – swallowed it up and handed himself over like a lamb to the slaughter.” 

Reed doesn’t reply. 

Hank sighs and rolls the car forward as the lights turn green. “Dunno why I’m even telling you this. You don’t care. And I know you don’t like Connor, but things just – don’t feel right. He said he’s not being mistreated but just ‘cause he’s not being taken apart or tortured or whatever doesn’t mean he’s all right. He said he was staying there of his own free will, which he doesn’t even believe he has. Stern’s fucked with his head. But there’s nothing I can do until I convince him to leave. I fucked that up pretty badly, yesterday.”  

 _He’s your son._  

Hank laughs; it’s harsh, bitter. “She won’t let me back in the building to visit him.” 

Reed scoffs. “I’m shocked your attitude would ever sabotage you,” he drawls. Prick. “What’d you do?” 

Hank presses his lips together. “Lost my temper. And she made it sound like I’m some sort of – domestic abuser.” He clenches his jaw. “She threatened Anne’s career.” 

“Why?” 

“So I wouldn’t cause  _trouble_.” 

“Sounds like she hasn’t changed a bit,” Reed mutters. 

Hank glances to the right. “You’re acting like you know her.” 

The look Reed gives him is one of pure disgust. “Duh.” 

That explains exactly nothing. Why is no one capable of giving him a straight answer once in a while? Why does everything have to be some sort of fucking  _guessing_ game? “How?” Hank drawls. 

“She was Elijah’s mentor,” Reed says, as if this is something obvious. “She came around for dinner all the time when he was at college.” 

“Elijah?” Hank repeats dubiously. “As in Kamski? Elijah Kamski?”  

“Oh, don’t act like you don’t know, you asshole. Everyone in the precinct knows, so you don’t have to be such a fucking prick, pretending you don’t know that Elijah’s my brother –”  

Wait. What? “You’re Kamski’s  _brother?_ ”  

Reed rubs his forehead. “Half-brother,” he mutters. “We haven’t... spoken in a while.” 

Now that Hank is looking,  _really_ looking... yeah. He sees the resemblance. It’s weird how he never saw it before until now when it’s been spelled out for him. Similar jawline, expressions. Kamski is short but Reed’s still shorter. Hank gets a kick out of that. He scoffs. “How long is ‘a while’?” 

“Nineteen years. And it’s her fault. Stern’s.” 

Jesus. Talk about a complicated family. “It’s cute how you think his old college professor is somehow at fault for you being a piece of shit,” Hank says, feeling mean. “If you were my brother, you bet your ass I’d cut contact for almost twenty years.”  

“Shut the hell up, Anderson,” Gavin hisses. “You have no idea what went on.”  

“Oh yeah?” Hank snorts. “Sounds like an advanced case of ‘I wasn’t the special child and I’m jealous that my genius brother got all the attention’. Sound about right?”  

“Yeah,” Gavin drawls, his mouth curled into an unpleasant scowl. “Got it in fucking one, Anderson. Never heard  _that_  one before.”  

Now Hank feels like an asshole, but not enough of one to spit out an apology he doesn’t really mean. “If you know Stern...” 

“I’m  _not_ talking to her for you.” 

“I didn’t even ask yet.” 

“Well, don’t. I’m not setting a foot in that fucking building and I don’t owe you  _shit._ If Stern’s made Astroboy her new little pet project, I’m not getting involved. I tried to do that once when she had her claws in Elijah and that was someone I actually cared about. I couldn’t give a fuck about that plastic asshole.” 

“Well I do, Reed!” Hank snaps. “She’s gotten into his head but there’s nothing I can do because she hasn’t committed a crime and he’s not budging!” 

“Yeah, of course he’s not, Anderson! Because she’s convinced him that she’s the only one who  _truly loves him_  for who he is, right?” 

Hank frowns. “How’d you -” 

“I’m  _glad_  he’s stuck with her. Better she fucks a machine than a fourteen-year-old boy!”  

Hank slams the brakes. The tires scream on the road and the seatbelt locks around his chest and knocks the breath from his lungs. The cold, grungy coffee splatters across the stereo, and the car behind him swerves violently, blaring its horn as it veers around them. “ _What?_ ”  

Gavin Reed bursts into tears.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a while since my last update. Sorry for the delay! IRL got in the way. Thanks for sticking with me!


	10. Ten | Proof, or Lack Thereof

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content/Trigger warning for implied rape/sexual abuse. There is no explicit portrayal of the situations.

_13 SEPTEMBER 2019, 23:45_

_“In 2028, Elijah Kamski was our Man of the Century. His creations have transformed our world. Androids didn’t just revolutionise the economy; they changed the way we live, restructured our family life, and altered the balance of society forever – for good or bad. Shortly after, Kamski disappeared. The questions remain: was he ousted as CEO, or did he resign? Did he know about RA9? Why has he not returned to embrace his role as the Father of Androids? The Man of the Century has vanished._

_“Kamski’s story begins in 2018, when commercial property in Detroit was cheap and attracting many start-ups. The college graduate bet what little he had on developing an android prototype and spent years to no avail – until hitting on two breakthroughs: blue blood and biocomponents. But who was the man behind the mystery? The boy behind the CEO? This documentary explores Elijah Kamski’s roots – the young genius with an IQ of 150, the brilliant scientist who changed our world.”_

Barely five minutes into this pathetic excuse of an exposé and the producers have made five critical errors. Elijah’s story began much earlier, in 2014. He’d been 12. He’d won a scholarship. He would become her student a year later. It was her money that went into developing his android prototype. Blue blood and biocomponents had been his plan from the start: working on development wasn’t the same as ‘no avail’, as though he’d miraculously stumbled across the secret of artificial life.

His IQ is 171.

The documentary says nothing about her.

Stern doesn’t mean to drain her glass of scotch, but the male narrator’s voice irritates her. “Amanda,” she says, “mute the television.”

The television goes silent, but Elijah’s face remains on the screen. It’s an older picture – one of him in 2028, the last time she saw him in person. She wonders if he looks the same – his jawline, those stunning blue eyes. They say he now wears his hair in one of those trendy man-buns that were briefly in fashion around 2018. She doubts it will suit him. The footage shows him with shoulder-length hair, his jaw clean-shaven. He’d always looked so handsome that way. No smile, though – he’d stopped smiling in those last few years, before he abruptly abandoned her. She should have known something was wrong – that he was unhappy, inventing stories in his head, getting lost in his own mind. He did that, sometimes. Attacks of paranoia, she called them.

The documentary doesn’t cover that, of course. The produces don’t know Elijah like she does. Recluse, they call him. Mystery. Elijah had never been a mystery to her. Even at the age of thirteen, smiling up at her and so eager for her praise, her respect. No one else understood him the way she did – no one else cared for him the way she did. His parents were cold, unappreciative of his sensitivity and genius. His brother was a brute, a jealous fool who had always envied what he could never have. She’d taken care of the brother – ensured he wouldn’t distract Elijah again. She’d given Elijah her money, her home, her counsel, her attention, her admiration, her intimacy, her trust. She gave Elijah _everything_.

And then – he’d disappeared.

Not really. She knows where he lives. She knows that his residence is on the other side of the lake, with a direct view of the CyberLife tower. She knows he has allowed only three visitors in the last six years to enter his house. She knows his phone number, she knows his postal address, she knows that he returns her handwritten letters without even opening them. She wonders if he, too, looks out his window and watches the tower as she watches his house.

_What did I do wrong?_

She watches the documentary on silent for the full hour. She asks Connor to refill her glass two more times. He’s a good boy, Connor. He reminds her so much of Elijah.

The documentary ends. She orders Amanda to turn it off, and the room plunges into darkness. She doesn’t move from the white leather couch. In the distance, across the lake, she can see Elijah’s house. The lights are on. Perhaps he’s swimming? He always liked swimming. She remembers the long stroke of his arms through the water, the way he would flick his hair from his blue eyes. He had always been so much older than his years. So mature, more so than any man her own age she’d ever met.

She aches for the hole Elijah had left in her life when he’d walked away from her, but she does not cry.

“Connor,” Stern says. 

“Yes, Professor Stern?” 

She swirls her scotch, drains the rest of it in one gulp; sets the glass aside and closes her eyes. She feels tired. Drunk.

“Run program,” she murmurs. “Voice Recognition.”

The room casts in yellow, then blinks blue. “Yes, Professor Stern.”

“Run program: Elijah Kamski.” 

Connor’s voice takes on a different tone. “Yes,” he says, “Professor Stern.”  

It isn’t the same. It can never be the same. His proportions are wrong, his hair is too light, his hands too firm; she orders him to be reactive as she straddles him, not proactive, and that’s a little better. The voice, the voice helps.

She doesn’t cry afterwards. She shoves the RK800 unit off her and gathers her clothes. She picks up her phone and dials the number she knows by heart, but the call is as blocked as it had been two hours prior, as blocked as it has been for eleven years. No matter how many different numbers she uses, no matter how many phones she tries, it’s always blocked, blocked, blocked.

“Elijah,” she says, “pour me another glass of scotch.” 

“Yes, Professor Stern.” 

With her eyes closed, it’s almost perfect.

* * *

_14 SEPTEMBER 2019, 00:04_

Hank knows precisely three things about Gavin Reed: he’s good detective, he’s an absolute asshole, and he’s a fuck-ugly crier.

He's one of those men whose entire body heaves in time with his gasping, blubbering sobs, snot streaming from his nose, saliva slipping from his open lips, tears dripping down his puffed face.

“Hey, hey, _hey_ ,” Hank warns, “don’t you fucking dare wipe your snot on the seat –” 

It’s too late; Gavin drags the back of his hand, which he’d previously dragged under his nose, across the fraying fabric of Hank’s passenger seat, leaving a slimy smear behind. 

“Oh, fuck you, Gavin,” Hank mutters.

“Why the fuck did you stop in the middle of the road?” Reed snaps through his snot and tears. It’s disgusting.

“Maybe the part where you accused the CEO of CyberLife of molesting your brother kind of took me by surprise, Reed!” Hank sighs and turned the engine off, hitting his emergency lights to flash instead so that the other cars will stop beeping at him for being parked in the middle of the damn freeway. “Listen. What you said – it’s a serious thing to accuse someone of.” 

“You think I don’t know that?” Gavin spits.

His face is a mess. Hank can’t stand looking at it. He reaches around behind him and grabs an old jacket. Since Connor has been gone, he’s let the depression mess infiltrate all aspects of his life – his beard, his hair, his bedroom, his wardrobe, his bathroom, and now his car. The jacket has got instant soup stains and stinks of booze and sweat, but beggars can’t be choosers. Hank hands it over to Reed, who sneers at it, but still uses a sleeve to dry his face and wipe away his snot.

Gross.

“Okay,” Hank says. “Will you talk me through it?”

“You taking a statement or something, Lieutenant?” Reed sneers.

Hank holds his gaze. “I can, if you want.”

“Of all the times for you to actually be a decent cop. Fuck you.”

But the floodgates have opened now, so to speak, and Gavin starts a word vomit. Hank feels like he should have his notepad and pen out, or at least pull out his phone and record the conversation, but Gavin hasn’t consented to that and fuck, Hank might have a killer headache and is pissed off as all hell that this is ruining his planned night with Anne, but –

He’s still a cop. Connor reminded him of that.

“He was fourteen years old when they met!” Gavin rants. “You don’t know what he used to be like. We fought all the time but we were fuckin’ – ride or die, you know? We were the only ones allowed to give each other shit, no one else. Until he met  _her_. Went to college at fuckin’ thirteen, while I was sixteen and barely scraping a graduating grade at high school. I got held back two years, did you know that?”

Of course Hank knows that – it’s in Gavin’s file.

“But Eli never made me feel like I was dumb – he was the only one who told me I was smart in other ways. Why’d you think I became a cop? I don’t need to memorise the periodic table to solve a crime. We messaged each other the entire first semester he was at college, but then he just – stopped. Responses got slower, he stopped telling me about his classes. I thought others were bullying him, but he’d have said so, he always did. Then when it was break and I saw him again, it was like – he was a stranger. Wouldn’t talk to anyone, barely ate, just spent all day in his room working on those fucking androids because  _Amanda said this_  and  _Amanda said that_ , and I was so – I was angry, y’know? He was my best friend and then he treated me like the dumbfuck everyone else in my life always had, so I – I lost my temper and yelled at him that if he loved Amanda so much then why didn’t he just fuck her.”

Hank pinches the bridge of his nose. “Jesus, Gavin.” 

“And usually if I said something like that, he’d tell me to go fuck myself and then we’d fistfight and then forgive each other by dinner, but that time –” Gavin chokes. “That time he just – stared at me. He was so fucking pale. He was _angry_. Said I was jealous of him. That I just didn’t understand. Then he turned around and locked himself in his room and I didn’t see him for the rest of the break. Then he went back to college a few weeks later. He moved in with her soon after. We still saw each other. Family dinners. Stern came along to those, too. I never got the chance to… to talk to him again. Properly.”

Hank feels numb.

“S’probably why Stern kept your android,” Gavin finishes with a sneer. “He’s just boyish enough for her tastes.”

Hank hates himself for what he says next. “None of that was proof, Gavin.”

“Fuck you, old man,” Gavin snaps. “Remember _hashtag me too_? You’d be lucky if a quarter of those stories had proof, and the media wasted no time demonising the accused, but God fucking _forbid_ I accuse diversity bingo card Amanda Stern.”

“That’s not what I was saying and you know it, so shut your punk ass up. In the eyes of the law, what you just told me is not proof. You know it because if you had more, you’d have opened a case into it, you’d have encouraged your brother to make a statement, you’d have found the right officers to take it seriously and – yeah, it might have taken years and taken a toll. But you didn’t, because you don’t have proof.” Hank rubs his forehead. “Has Kamski himself ever said anything?”

“No.”

“Maybe there was nothing for him to say?”

“Maybe he didn’t think there was anything to say because she fucked him up, made him think it was normal,” Gavin says. That’s a possibility, too. Hank’s seen a lot of shit in his time. “Or maybe he was _scared_.”

“Of her?”

“Of fucks like you who only look for bruises and broken arms and a ripped anus! It wasn’t _like_ that. He worshipped the ground she walked on. If he ever did end up saying something, why the fuck would anyone believe _him_? She spent years crafting the image that their relationship was perfect. The female mentor and her genius teenage student.”

“If it did happen – if you were in his corner – why’d he cut you out?”

“Same reason your android cut you out,” Gavin snaps. “Stern got in his head and made you the bad guy. Just like how she made me the bad guy for Elijah.”

Hank feels a migraine that had nothing to do with his hangover coming on.

“I know I don’t have proof. Why the fuck do you think I never said anything, or told anyone? But I know, all right? I just –” Gavin slumps back in his seat. “I just know.”

“What makes you so sure she touched him?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“You wouldn’t be this convinced without good reason. Did you see it?”

“No.”

“Did Kamski ever tell you?”

“No.”

A horrible thought occurs to Hank. “…Did she touch you?” he asks, quietly.

Gavin presses his lips together and looks away, out the window of the car.

“Gavin.”

“I don’t know,” Gavin replies, tone bitter. “I don’t have _proof_.”

Hank feels hopelessly, horribly out of his depth. “What do you mean you don’t know?”

“I mean –” Reed pinches the bridge of his nose. “There was this… one time. Just one.”

 _Jesus Christ_. “How old were you?”

He speaks in a mumble. “Seventeen. I wasn’t a _kid_ , okay?”

“Legally speaking –”

“Fuck off. That’s not a _kid_. I wasn’t powerless.”

“What happened?”

Gavin shrugs. “I’d had a bit to drink. She liked scotch, I remember that. I didn’t like her and she knew it, but that night she seemed – I don’t know. Nice? We were alone. Elijah was out, mom was travelling and my step-dad was God knows where. Stern asked me to sit down with her and talk. She poured me a glass of scotch, which was… probably the most expensive drink I’d ever had. We talked. Eventually we were close enough for me to smell her perfume. Rose. Elijah always smelled like that fucking rose perfume. She told me that she knew I was jealous of Elijah, but that I didn’t have to be. I had other strengths, other talents, but I couldn’t be selfish and hold him back, you see. It was like – when she talked, she made perfect sense and _I_ was the unreasonable one, even though just earlier that day I’d despised her.”

Hank feels ill. “And then?”

Another shrug. “And then... I must’ve had about three glasses. Maybe four. Her hand was on my knee and I didn’t _not_ like it. I was...”

Gavin trails off. Hank can fill in the details well enough on his own. He was seventeen once – hand on the knee, bit of alcohol, proximity, that’s all it would’ve taken for an involuntary boner.

“Gavin…”

Reed shakes his head. “Doesn’t fucking matter. I don’t really remember it, so it doesn’t matter.”

“It does matter, Reed.”

“No, it doesn’t. I wasn’t a virgin. I’d had drunk sex before.”

“That doesn’t mean you deserved it.”

“You sound like a rape pamphlet,” Gavin snaps. “Piss off. I know the spiel _._ ”

“Then you know it wasn’t your fault.”

“Ha. I told my dad about it afterwards. Not Elijah’s dad, my dad. He snorted a line of coke and clapped me on the shoulder and said, _good on you, son_. So I thought, yeah, good on me for getting jerked off by Mrs Robinson.” He sneers. “Isn’t that every boy’s dream?”

“I’m sorry, Gavin.”

“I don’t want your damn pity. It was a long time ago and I don’t have _proof_ of anything, so it doesn’t matter.”

Hank flinches.

“He said, she said, right? Jesus. But if she could do that to me when I was seventeen and on my own for just one night, what the hell did she do to a fourteen-year-old boy who used to spend weeks in her home?” Gavin scrubs his face again with the jacket. “Fucking hell. I shouldn’t have said anything. You’re gonna look at me weird now all the time, aren’t you?”

“I won’t.”

“You will. You can barely keep yourself together, of course you’re gonna look at me like I’m some sort of fucking rape victim. I’m _not_. Okay? I wasn’t a kid and it barely counts. You tell anyone about this, Anderson, and I’ll fuck you up. Drive me home.” Gavin blows his nose again on the sleeve of Hank’s jacket. 

Hank starts the car and takes the emergency lights off. “You’re paying for the dry cleaning,” he says, because it’s easier to focus on that than literally everything that he’s just heard.

 They’re silent for the remainder of the drive.

“You think she’s doing something to Connor?” Hank asks as Reed yanks the seatbelt off once he’s stopped outside the block of units.

“Probably,” Reed says, getting out of the car. He doesn’t take the snotty jacket with him. Looks like Hank’s going to have to burn it. “But good luck proving it and finding anyone else who cares. I don’t.”

“Gavin, you know it’s never too –”

Reed slams the door shut.

“– late,” Hank finishes, watching Reed storm inside his apartment block without so much as a backwards glance. He exhales and pitches forward, pressing his forehead against the steering wheel. “Jesus _fucking_ Christ.”


End file.
